HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS. 


HIGHWAYS  AND  BYWAYS 


OR 


SAUNTERINGS   IN    NEW  ENGLAND 


BY 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON  GIBSON 

AUTHOR  OF   "PASTORAL  DAYS" 


illustrated 


"Every  vista  a  cathedral 
Every  bough  a  revelation" 


NEW  YORK 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE 

1903 


6k* 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1882,  by 

HARPER   &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

MY    MOTHER 

ALL    THAT    IS    WORTHY    IN    THIS    VOLUME 

3  JDebkate  in  fioue  anb  ©ratttube 


502128 


SAUNTERINGS. 


PAGE 


I.  ALONG  THE  ROAD 17 

II.  THE  SQUIRREL'S  HIGHWAY 61 

III.  ACROSS  LOTS 97 

IV.  AMONG  OUR  FOOTPRINTS 127 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

DESIGNED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


TITLE.  ENGRAVER.                                                                            PAGE 

REVERIE. F.S.KiNG Frontispiece 

A   PRINCIPALITY CLARK  and  PETTIT 8 

A  MEADOW  GLIMPSE J.  ROCHESTER  .........  n 

"WHO   WISELY   SINGS,  WILL   SING  AS   THEY".     .     II.  DEIS 12 

BECKONING   LEAVES '.    V-  ".     .     .     .     .     W.  M'CRACKEN 14 

A   TRANSFIGURATION .......  T.  HEARD     ..........  14 

AN   ARABESQUE   (Vignette  Title) T.  HEARD 15 

"QUI   VIVE"     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     ...     .     .     ....     .     R.  PHAIR      . 16 

A    HUDDLE.     .     .     . J.  TINKEY 17 

MORNING   IN   THE    MEADOW W.  H.  MORSE 19 

A  WAY-SIDE    BENEFACTOR W.  H.  MORSE 21 

TRAMPS HENRY  MARSH 23 

A  WAY-SIDE    HOME F.  JUENGLING    ........  26 

GOSSIP  AND  TWITTER SMITHWICK  and  FRENCH     ....  30 

THE   SWAYING   SHADOW R.  HOSKIN 32 

A  WELCOME   SIGNAL J.  FILMER .  35 

THE   PEERLESS   PLUME F.  S.  KING 37 

ENOCH   EMMONS :........     HENRY  WOLF 40 

A  WAY-SIDE    BARGAIN SMITHWICK  and  FRENCH    ....  44 

THE    TOLL-BRIDGE R.  HOSKIN 47 

FRIENDLY  COUNSEL SMITHWICK  and  FRENCH    ....  49 

FOLLOWING   THE   RIPPLE J.  P.  DAVIS  ....  5<> 

THE   VESPER   SPARROW SMITHWICK  and  FRENCH    ....  52 

THE   TWILIGHT   VOICE .  W.  H.  MORSE  ,     .                   ...  54 

FIRE-FLIES .-  ,J.  E  DAVIS  .  55 

LINKS  .                                                                                              W.  H.  CLARK 56 


10  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

TITLE.  ENGRAVER.  PAGE 

THOUGHTS ' H.DEIS 58 

BENEDICTION   OF   THE    DEW .     .  E.  SCHOONMAKER 58 

THE   SQUIRREL'S   HIGHWAY  (Vignette  Title).     .     .     .  W.  H.  MORSE 59 

PHILOSOPHY   IN   A   NUTSHELL E.  C.  HELD 60 

THE   EDGE   OF   THE   FIELD W.  H.  MORSE 61 

THE   HAUNT   OF   THE    HERON R.  HOSKIN 63 

A  BRAMBLE   CLUSTER  ....... H.  GRAY 67 

A  WINTER   RENDEZVOUS.     .     .     .  •  ., F.  S.  KING 70 

A   SIDE-HILL   PASTURE      . J.  TINKEY 73 

A   CLEARING .     .     .  F.  LEVIN 76 

THE   HAUNTED   HOUSE .     .     .  O.  WIGAND 79 

PEEPS   BETWEEN   THE    RAILS HOSKIN  and  DEIS 82 

LOOKING   UPHILL .     .     .     .  E.  C.  HELD -86 

SHADOWED HENRY  WOLF 88 

VINE-CLUSTERS F.  JUENGLING 90 

ADIEU W.  B.  WITTE     . 91 

THE   PASTURE-BARS .     .     .  W.  H.  MORSE 92 

THE   "ROVER   OF   THE    UNDERWOODS"      .     .     .    *.  T.  L.  SMART 94 

ACROSS   LOTS   (Illustrated  Title)     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  F.  S.  KING 95 

UNANSWERED .     .  W.  M'CRACKEN 96 

THE   SHEEP-LOT W.  MILLER 97 

HILL-SIDE   STUBBLE.     .     .     .     .     .     .*  .     .    -.     .     .     .  F.  JUENGLING 99 

THE   WEED   MEADOW J.  TINKEY 102 

"YE   END   OF   MAN" .     .     .     .  F.  LEVIN 104 

TESTIMONY  OF  THE   IMMORTELLES.     .....  G.  E.  JOHNSON 106 

FIELD  BOUQUET    ....  - HENRY  MARSH 108 

MAGNOLIAS HENRY  MARSH      .     . no 

ORCHID    ...... G.  GEYER in 

IRIS.     . G.  GEYER in 

THE   SIMPLER'S   FAVORITE  .     .     .'  .     ...     .     .     .  A.  HAYMAN 113 

THE   MYSTERIOUS   ERRAND      .........  J.  TINKEY 114 

DUSK .    .  F.  LEVIN 115 

AUNT    HULDY     .     .     . G.  GEYER      . 116 

SUN-DEWS F.  A.  PETTIT 119 

AU    REVOIR '. R.  PHAIR 122 

THE    IMAGE J.  H.  GRIMLEY 124 

THE   SEPULCHRE J.  H.  GRIMLEY 124 

FALSE    PROMISES   (Illustrated  Title) E.  C.  HELD 125 

"BENEATH    OUR   SHOON " J.  H.  GRIMLEY 126 

THE    MORNING  GOSSAMER   .  F.  S.  KING   .                                        .  127 


ILL  USTRA  TIONS. 


II 


TITLE.  ENGRAVER.  PAGB 

THE   SONG-SPARROW'S   NEST    .     .     .   • W.  H.  MORSE '  .     .   130 

A  BURIAL    ... HENRY  MARSH 

ON   THE   SCENT A.  HAYMAN 

THE   "POOR   BEETLE" E.  C.  HELD 

UNDER   THE   GLASS '.     .     .  G.  H.  BUECHNER 

THE   INSECT-TIGER R.  HOSKIN 

AN    UNGAINLY   VICTIM E.  HOLSEY 

A  PROWLER HENRY  MARSH 

STRATEGY  VERSUS  STRENGTH HENRY  MARSH 

BIRD-NEST   FUNGUS H.  DEIS 

FAIRY   PARASOLS W.  H.  CLARK 

DICENTRA H.  GRAY 

A  VICTIM   OF   GREED E.  C.  HELD 

COMPANIONS P.  ANNIN 151 

THE   ORCHID   AND   ITS   FRIEND J.  TINKEY 153 

CONSTRUCTION   OF   ORCHID G.  H.  BUECHNER 154 

REMOVAL   OF   POLLEN  . G.  H.  BUECHNER 154 

A   MARTYR   TO   SCIENCE G.  H.  BUECHNER 155 

FINIS J.  ROCHESTER 157 


133 
135 
136 
137 
139 
140 
142 
144 
146 
146 
148 
150 


ALONG  THE  ROAD. 


"  For  I  have  learned 
To  look  on  Nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth,  but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity, 
Nor  harsh,  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.      And  I  have  felt 
A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts — a  sense  sublin/e 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  light  of  setting  suns, 
And  the  round  ocean,  and  the  living  air, 
And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man  ; 
A  motion  and  a  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.      Therefore  am  I  still 
A  lover  of  the  meadows,  and  the  woods, 
And  mountains,  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ;    of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create 
And  what  perceive  ;   well  pleased  to  recognize 
In  Nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense 
The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse, 
The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being." 


V 

"(-"A-DAAY!      Ca-daay! 

^    Ca-daay!" 

"  Go,  drive  'um,  Shep  !      Go, 
drive  'um  !     Gosh   all  hemlock  ! 
wy    don't    ye   go  ?      Ef   I   vva'n't 
a-urgin'  on  ye,  yeu'd  'a  bin  thar  time 
'n'  agin.      I    swaou,  you're   an    old  fool 
dog ;    ye  don't  airn  yer  keep.     Go,  drive 

'um,  I  tell  ye!"     And  now   we  hear   a  half-suppressed  grunt,  and  the 
eye  of  fancy  might  almost  see   the   whizzing   stone  that  followed.      It 


HIGHWAYS   AND   BYWAYS. 


was  a  voice  full  of  that  panting  vehemence  born  of  an  excited  temper, 
with  a  lack  of  the  wherewithal  to  give  it  full  utterance  ;  for  there  were 
some  questionable  utterances  under  that  short  breath,  and  its  puffing 
modulations  and  labored  accompaniment  of  heavy  footfalls  pictured  a 
hot  and  excited  chase.  But  it  was  a  picture  through  the  sense  of  sound 
alone,  for  its  source  and  all  its  surroundings  were  concealed  in  a  dense 
cloud  of  dust,  which,  like  a  veil  of  yellow  smoke,  had  risen  over  the  road 
before  us,  and  shut  out  all  our  prospect. 

"  Go,  drive  'um,  Shep  !"  yelled  the  remnant  of  the  panting  voice. 
"Go,  drive  'um.  Thar!  thefs  suthin'  like.  Naow,  give  it  to  'um  lively  ;" 
and  a  fresh  cloud  rises  up  among  the  trees  amid  a  trampling  sound  of 
.a  host  of  hurrying  hoofs  and  a  half-human  chorus  of  the  bleating  sheep  ; 
and  now  Shep's  voice  is  heard  among  the  scramble,  and  now  we  hear 
the  ring  of  boyish  voices,  intermingled  with  the  tuneful  clatter  of  the 
falling  pasture  bars.  Erelong,  as  we  follow  on,  the  dense  cloud  softens, 
sinks,  and  melts  away  among  the  trees,  and  lingers  above  the  meadow 
grass;  while  the  landscape  steals  softly  into  view,  first  the  apple-tree 
against  the  sky,  and  now  its  overhanging  branch  and  shadow  on  the 
wall  ;  and  in  a  moment  more  we  see  the  woolly  huddle  in  the  road,  from 
whence,  hemmed  in  on  either  side,  they  sally  up  the  bank,  and  frisk 
away  to  pastures  new  in  the  sloping  orchard  lot  beyond. 

How  many  beautiful  pictures  have  I  seen  emerge  from  a  cloud  of 
dust  upon  a  country  road  !  How  many  of  those  pictures  have  again 
been  half  obliterated  by  the  dust  of  after-  years,  only  to  be  recalled  to 
life  by  even  so  trivial  a  thing  as  the  bleating  of  a  lamb,  the  ring  of  a 
boyish  laugh;  or  the  homely  music  of  the  falling  pasture  bars  ! 

Pity  for  him  whose  heart  knows  no  such  sensitive  and  latent  chord 
of  sympathy  to  yield  its  harmony  along  the  way,  lending  an  inspiration 
to  the  present,  while  sanctifying  the  past,  and  drawing  from  its  better 
memories  a  renewed  delight  in  living  !  There  is  no  walk  in  life,  how 
ever  dull  or  prosaic,  no  circumstances  so  commonplace,  that  they  can 
stifle  this  ever-present  melody.  It  sings  in  unison  with  nature  in  a 
thousand  different  keys  —  in  a  falling  leaf  or  a  cricket  song.  The  rain 
drops  of  to-day  but  repeat  the  old-time  patter  on  the  garret-roof.  The 
noisy  katydid,  whenever  heard,  is  that  same  untiring  nightly  visitant 
outside  your  window  to  whose  perpetual  whim  you  loved  to  listen,  and 
in  fancy  tantalize  until  you  dropped  off  to  sleep  upon  your  pillow. 
This  skimming  swallow  sailing  near  will  never  cross  your  path  but  so 


ALONG     THE    ROAD. 


surely  will  he  fly  to  those  same  old  nests  beneath  the  barn-yard  eaves. 
If  there  is  ever  a  blessed  mood  "  most  musical,  most  melancholy,"  it  may 
be  found  beneath  the  refining  influence  of  just  such  reminiscences;  for 
whether  or  not  there  are  added  elements  of  home  association,  there  are 


/  always   a  le- 

'^-^^*/  J 

""^*  gion  of  indelible 

memories    that   love    to    linger 
along  the    country  road  and  lane- 
highways    and  byways   beloved  of  fancy 
—paths  of  recollection   filled  with  footprints 
which  not  even  the  tempest  can  obliterate. 

Go  where  you  will  among  New  England  hills-it  matters  not-seek 
out  some  isolated  town  hidden  far  away  from  any  past  associations,  and 
how  quickly  do  you  find  yourself  upon  the  same  old  tangled  road! 
The  same  familiar  friends  have  come  and  crowded  on  either  side  to 
meet  you  as  of  old;  the  same  birds  sing  in  the  self-same  trees;  and  the 


20  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

quivering  aspens  whisper  and  clap  their  hands  in  welcome,  as  in  years 
gone  by.  Here,  too,  is  the  identical  low-roofed  house  among  the  maples, 
with  its  vine-clad  porch  and  open  door — the  always  open  door,  betoken 
ing  the  kind  and  open-hearted  hospitality  within,  and  which  in  New 
England  is  abroad  in  all  the  air,  seeking  you  out  even  in  the  loneliest 
byway. 

There  is  one  of  these  roads  I  have  in  mind.  I  only  made  its  ac 
quaintance  a  few  short  months  ago,  but  it  already  seems  as  though  it 
had  been  my  tramping -ground  for  years.  I  know  its  every  nook,  its 
every  fence-corner ;  and  many  are  its  tender  flowers  that  I  have  picked 
and  torn  to  pieces  in  my  love  and  desire  to  know  them  better,  and 
many  are  the  mockeries,  called  "  sketches,"  which  still  exist  to  libel  and 
profane  its  beauty.  It  is  a  single  drive  among  the  hills  and  dells  of 
a  charming  nook,  scarcely  a  league  in  length ;  but  where,  by  some 
happy  chance  or  rare  design,  Nature  has  contrived  to  bring  together  a 
typical  expression — a  representative  congress,  as  it  were — of  New  Eng 
land's  most  charming  individuality  and  character.  There  are  whole  sec 
tions  now  and  then  which  seem  to  have  been  transplanted  bodily  from 
the  wild  woods  of  Maine  or  the  rugged  borders  of  the  Housatonic. 
The  brooks  reflect  the  umbrageous  banks  of  my  own  Shepaug;  The 
same  old  rumbling  saw-mills  have  floated  down  the  streams,  and  lodged 
upon  the  banks  among  their  overhanging  willows ;  and  if  a  rustic  native 
chances  on  your  way,  he  is  the  same  old  neighbor  you  so  well  remem 
ber,  or  at  least  you  feel  a  certainty  that  he  must  be  his  brother  or 
some  near  relation. 

I  have  'a  note -book  full  from  cover  to  cover  with  transcripts  from 
this  roadside,  but  its  record  is  bewildering;  neither  is  it  necessary;  for, 
as  I  look  upon  its  familiar  shape  beside  me,  there  are  certain  pages 
which  shine  through  those  closed  covers,  and  I  find  myself  once  more 
upon  that  road  without  its  farther  aid,  sitting,  perhaps,  beneath  the  sway 
ing  beech-boughs,  listening  to  some  ill-tempered,  scolding  squirrel  among 
the  sunny  leaves,  or  to  the  music  of  the  tiny  crystal  stream  across  the 
way,  as  it  shoots  along  through  its  mossy  groove,  and  pours,  in  a  little 
glistening  column,  into  the  old  log  water-trough.  Who  is  he  that  is  not 
athirst  as  he  nears  the  old  log  water-trough  ?  Who  can  pass  it  by  with 
out  a  greeting,  or  even  a  grateful  touch  of  the  lips  ? 

I  often  wonder  whether  is  it  alone  the  fancy*  that  imparts  to  the 
way-side  spring  that  wild  and  subtle  flavor?  Does  it  not  tell  therein  the 


ALONG     THE    ROAD 


21 


story  of  its  mysterious  wanderings  through  the  leaf-mould  and  the  rooty 
ioam  ;  of  trickling  grottoes,  cool  and  dark,  among  the  mossy  bowlders ; 
of  loiterings  among  the  beds  of  fern  and  coltsfoot,  with  here  a  silent 
pool  among  the  matted  leaves,  overhung  with  pale  anemones  and  fringe 
of  maidenhair,  and  there  a  sudden 
precipice,  where  it  finds  its 


-•^_. 
way    in    trickling    beads      .  .V"*  N  ^ 

among   festoons    of   fairy 
fumitory,  and  is  lost  again  amid 
the  rocky  crevices  beneath  ;  now  '    iff? 

bubbling    up    where    pale    dicentras       vf  J^4  | 
spread    their    plumy    foliage,    and 
the   floating    <^      leaves  of  jewel- 
•-.    weed  turn  its 
face  to  sil- 


, 


A    WAYSIDE    BENEFACTOR . 


ver ;    here     drinking    in   the    healing  virtues    of  the 
pine  from   some   soggy  fallen   cone,  or  taking  tribute  from 
the  aromatic  roots  of  ginseng  and  wild-ginger,  while  it  nour 
ishes  in  return  their  juicy  leaves,  that  rise  and  crowd  above 
its  surface  ?      There  are  faint  suggestions,  too,  of  hemlock  and  arbutus, 
of  winter-green  and  bloodroot,  and  a  host  of  those  other  wood  compan 
ions,  which  you  may  be  sure  it  has  sought  out  and  kissed  along  its  way. 
And  now,  as  it  emerges,  pure  as  crystal,  into  the  broad,  open  light, 


22  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

see  how  its  rustic  trough  would  mimic  its  woodland  solitudes  with  gar 
lands  of  trailing  vine  and  fern.  See  the  velvet  clumps  of  deep -green 
moss  that  crowd  about  its  edge  and  dip  beneath  its  surface,  while  all 
below,  among  its  supporting  rocks,  every  chink  and  cranny  has  become 
a  nestling-place  for  some  contented,  moisture-loving  spray. 

I  sat  and  watched  this  picture  for  a  long  and  pleasant  hour.  I  saw 
the  shadows  of  its  overhanging  beech  play  among  its  bright  and  fresh 
mosaic —  saw  the  wood -thrush  sit  upon  its  brink  and  wet  his  throat, 
tired  and  hoarse,  it  would  almost  seem,  from  his  incessant  singing.  The 
robin  and  the  bluebird  came ;  and  the  complaining  cat-bird,  interrupted 
in  its  bath,  shook  down  a  shower  of  imprecation  at  that  weary  traveller, 
hot  and  dusty,  who  stopped  and  bowed  his  head  before  the  way -side 
benefactor,  and  passed,  refreshed,  along  his  way. 

And  with  him  we  will  follow.  No,  not  yet,  for  there  is  a  touch  of 
humor  in  that  venerable  water-trough.  It  has  its  little  harmless  but 
doubly  pointed  joke  for  every  intimate  acquaintance,  and  no  doubt  en 
joys  it ;  for  already  the  running  water  seems  voiced  in  a  rippling  laugh, 
as  we  seat  ourselves  upon  the  bank  for  an  earnest  interview  with  these 
forked  burrs  which  have  impaled  themselves  in  ranks  and  squads  and 
entire  companies  upon  every  available  portion  of  our  clothing. 

The  study  of  botany  is  not  a  general  pursuit.  There  are  many  who 
could  not  tell  an  akene  from  a  silicle  to  save  their  lives ;  but  only  ask 
them  if  they  ever  saw  a  beggar's -tick,  and  they  will  glow  with  that  true 
enthusiasm  born  of  success  in  scientific  research ;  for  there  is  at  least 
one  page  of  botany  with  which  every  one  is  familiar — the  family  of  the 
burrs,  the  cockles,  and  the  tick-seed.  You  are  always  running  against 
them  in  your  rambles.  They  are  the  vagrants  and  the  vagabonds  of  the 
vegetable  world,  the  veritable  tramps  of  the  highways ;  and,  like  their 
affinity  in  human  guise,  they  are,  almost  without  exception,  worthless 
immigrants  from  other  shores.  Nor  has  their  emigration  fever  ever  left 
them.  It  seems  destined  to  become  chronic  and  hereditary.  They  cling 
but  lightly  to  their  birthplace,  are  always  ready  to  leave  it  on  the  slight 
est  opportunity,  and  are  ever  on  the  watch  to  steal  a  passage  to  new 
and  untried  fields  upon  the  first  humble  craft  that  shall  chance  their 
way. 

Some  of  them,  like  the  armed  bur -marigolds,  are  bold  and  daring, 
and  jab  you  with  their  spears  in  true  highwayman  fashion ;  others,  as 
in  the  agrimony  and  enchanter's  nightshade,  sly  and  cautious,  hiding 


ALONG    THE    ROAD. 


in    unsuspected    places,  and    eluding    your    detection    until    discovered 

against  the  background  of  your  garments.     But 
they    are    all    our    very    constant  \  / 1  / 

companions  in  the  country.     We 
have,  as   it  were,  been  forced  to 
become   attached  to  them,  and,  af 
ter  all,  it  must  be  admitted  they 
appear  to  their  worst  advantage 
when  separated  from  their  original 
surroundings.     There   is    a   certain 
charm  of  eccentric  individuality,  for 
instance,  in  a  full -barbed 
cluster   of  bur-marigold ; 
and    then    the    tapering 
raceme  of  the  agri 
mony  rising  above 
its  shapely  leaves, 
with   its  close -nod 
ding,  urn-shaped  burrs, 
is    really    a    graceful 
denizen  of  our  woods 
and  byways,  while  I 
am  sure  we  all  would  miss 
the  ornamental  symmetry  of  the  bur 
dock  from  the  tangles  of  our  fences, 
lanes,  and  roadsides. 

An    interesting    chapter   might 
be  wrritten,  and  afford  ample  oppor 
tunity  for  decoration,  on  the  theme 
of  "  Nature  as  a  Sower."    We  have  here 
l\     seen  a  class  of  plants  whose   only  means 
of  dissemination  is  through  the  medium  of 
alien    transportation,  of    which    design    their 
very  conformation  gives  perfect  evidence.     Oth 
ers  shed  their  seeds  upon  the  running  streams, 
or  hurl  them  in  the  current  with  a  jerk,  to  be 
washed   along  and  lodged   upon   the  shingly 
sand-bars.     The  germs  of  many  of  our  fruits 


24  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

and  berries  look  to  the  birds  for  their  future  opportunities  of  growth, 
while  nuts  find  an  abundant  means  of  distribution  in  the  joint  propen 
sities  of  boys  and  squirrels.  Others,  like  the  samaras  of  the  tulip-tree 
and  pine,  are  launched  from  the  tree-tops,  and  flutter  with  a  will  to  the 
farthest  limit  of  their  strength ;  while  many,  more  ethereal  and  spirit- 
like,  as  in  the  thistle  and  the  fireweed,  are  provided  with  wings  as  light 
as  air:  they  are  at  home  upon  the  breeze,  and  the  whole  earth  is  their 
kingdom. 

To  the  latter  class  belongs  that  embodiment  of  grace,  our  roadside 
clematis — the  queen  of  all  our  native  climbers — trailing  over  walls  and 
fences,  throwing  its  embroidered  canopy  over  the  unsightly  stubble,  cov 
ering  the  ungainly  branch  with  waving  sprays  of  borrowed  verdure,  and 
swinging  its  drooping  arabesques  in  most  charming  abandon  along  the 
borders  of  every  pond  or  running  brook. 

This  beautiful  vine  brings  renewed  delight  to  me  with  each  succes 
sive  year;  and  next  autumn,  when  I  follow  once  more  these  pleasant 
rambles,  when  I  can  look  again  upon  these  downy  clusters,  silvered  in 
the  sunlight,  or  shadowed  in  cloudy  puffs  against  the  luminous,  translu 
cent  leaves,  while  I  enjoy  the  endless  charm  of  its  graceful  spray,  I  hope 
it  will  forgive  me  for  so  idle,  albeit  so  loving,  an  attempt  to  reproduce 
its  beauty  on  the  printed  page. 

The  occasional  spreading  copse  of  clematis  is  as  certain  an  accom 
paniment  of  the  New  England  road  as  are  its  footprints  or  its  wheel- 
ruts;  but  here  upon  this  matchless,  road  we  come  upon  a  long,  low 
stretch  where  for  rods  and  rods  on  every  side  it  spreads  above  the 
shrubbery  in  a  perfect  maze  of  intermingled  leaves  and  fuzzy  puffs,  with 
here  and  there  a  leaf  of  fiery  sumac  bursting  like  flame  among  the 
smoky  seeds.  It  crowds  upon  your  carriage  -  wheels ;  adventurous  tips 
reach  out  upon  the  highway,  and  erelong  your  very  whipstock  would 
be  sure  to  feel  the  embrace  of  its  circling  leaf-stem.  And  still  I  would 
venture  to  say  that,  search  where  you  will  in  all  that  wide-spread  tangle, 
it  were  a  task  to  find  a  single  sprig  in  which  this  charming  vine  has 
been  untrue  to  its  pure  ideal  of  perfect  elegance  and  grace. 

Not  a  hundred  feet  beyond  this  display,  and  we  meet  another  of 
those  little  surprises  ever  in  store  for  us  along  these  roads,  and  often 
affording  a  contrast  which  almost  bears  the  impress  of  design ;  for  here 
certainly  the  line  of  beauty  is  directly  confronted  with  the  stiff,  unbend 
ing  perpendicular.  Two  sloping  banks  rise  up  abruptly  on  either  side, 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  25 

guarded  by  ranks  and  tiers  of  towering  mulleins  —  a  veritable  army  of 
sentinels,  erect,  armed,  and  ammunitioned  for  the  fray.  If  you  doubt  it, 
search  them  closer.  Here  are  pockets  full  of  fine  black  powder,  and 
pistils  by  the  thousand,  primed  and  loaded  to  the  muzzle.  And  does 
your  fancy  detect  the  odor  of  the  smoke  of  battle  ?  No ;  it  is  but  the 
incense  of  the  pennyroyal  that  they  are  trampling  under  their  mocca- 
soned  feet,  and  which  carpets  the  ground  about  them. 

But  we  are  soon  out  of  their  reach,  for  a  quick,  sharp  turn  takes  us 
up  a  steep  ascent,  and  we  wonder  what  will  be  the  outlook  when  our 
tugging  pony  reaches  the  open  summit.  Here  the  road  has  run  up  to 
look  around  a  bit,  and  get  its  bearings  in  the  landscape,  taking  one 
short  glimpse  of  a  billowy  field  of  golden  wheat,  an  orchard,  a  winding 
brook,  and  —  but  what  else  we  cannot  see,  for  now  we  make  a  sudden 
dip,  only  to  dive  into  a  dark,  umbrageous  tunnel  of  interwoven  maples, 
and  we  draw  the  rein  to  let  our  eyes  wander  among  the  cool  shadows 
of  the  sugar -grove,  among  the  lichen -painted  rocks  and  surrounding 
beds  of  pale -green  fern,  and  perhaps  to  picture  to  ourselves  the  busy, 
snowy  scene  of  early  March,  with  its  trickling  spigots,  and  fumes  of 
boiling  sap  emanating  from  that  old  sugar -house  now  almost  lost  to 
sight  among  the  leaves. 

Alas !  how  much  virgin  sweetness  has  been  condensed  into  solidity 
beneath  the  roof  of  that  innocent  shanty ! — solidity  destined  only  to  be 
used  thereafter  as  a  delicate  flavoring  for  genuine  brown  sugar  to  gull 
the  palate  of  the  city- bred,  and  awaken  pleasant  pastoral  visions,  and 
wistful  longings  for  "Vermont's"  rural  sweetness  and  simplicity.  No 
wonder  the  sugar -maples  of  New  England  color  more  deeply  than  in 
other  sections!  The  enforced  indignity  of  competing  in  the  market 
with  plain  plebeian  molasses  sugar  should  alone  put  them  to  the  deeper 
blush. 

No  sooner  do  the  shadows  of  these  maples  leave  us  than  we  are 
winding  around  the  edge  of  a  steep  and  rocky  hill -side,  where  weed- 
grown  "pasture-lands"  creep  far  up  toward  the  summit,  with  great  gray 
masses  of  granite  bowlders  cropping  out  among  the  wild  confusion, 
where  coarse  brown  brakes,  sweet  fern,  and  spreading  juniper  run  riot 
over  the  ground,  and  every  open  slope  is  terraced  from  side  to  side  with 
sheepwalks.  Below,  we  look  down  across  a  field  of  tasselled  maize,  with 
its  rustling  leaves  and  nodding  plumes,  and  we  know  from  the  line  of 
thrifty  willows  at  its  lower  edge  that  a  rivulet  has  there  found  its  way. 


26 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


We  can  trace  its  channel  far  up  the  opposite  bank,  where  its  winding 
course  is  marked  among  the  herbage,  and  its  glistening  cascades  flash 
in  the  sunlight  among  the  sloping  daisy  fields.  Yonder,  high  up,  near 
the  summit  of  the  ridge,  we  espy  a  little  farm  pinned  to  its  slope  by 


A   WAY-SIDE   HOME. 


rows    of  stakes    and    poles.       Per 
haps,  on  a  second  thought,  it  may  be 
a  hop  plantation  or  a  little  vineyard,  but 
how  surely  must  it  need  that  firm  stone 

wall  along  its  lower  edge  to  brace  against !  Now  comes  a  distant  "  gee  " 
and  "haw"  and  snap  of  whip,  and  you  look  with  wonder  at  the  lum 
bering  ox -team  that  can  even  stand,  much  less  make  its  way,  upon 
so  steep  a  footing.  But  that  persevering  pioneer  will  yet  redeem  this 
rugged  waste,  and  make  it  blossom  as  the  rose.  The  bed  of  stones  and 
bowlders  will  soon  grow  into  a  net -work  of  sturdy  walls,  which  will 
remain  for  ages  monuments  of  his  unflagging  industry.  Perhaps,  too, 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  27 

from  his  lofty  perch  he  can  look  down  for  happy  inspiration  upon  a 
little  snuggery  hidden  somewhere  among  the  trees  below.  Not  that 
typical  old  Puritanic  homestead  of  other  days,  but  a  snow-white  cottage, 
bright  and  new,  with  modern  reforms  and  comforts,  the  dwelling  of  the 
new  generation — a  little  principality  all  by  itself  in  the  landscape,  with 
its  small  village  of  trim  out-buildings,  its  barns,  and  stable,  corn-crib, 
ice-house,  and  hen-house,  its  close -clipped  door-yard,  its  open  porch, 
aglow  with  thrifty  house-plants,  with  peeps  of  the  tidy  cosiness  within, 
and,  best  of  all,  that  brisk  little  body  who  is  the  life  and  light  of  all, 
and  who  blows  the  noonday  horn  that  sends  its  echo  to  listening,  eager 
ears  far  up  among  the  hill-side  stubble. 

But  in  a  moment  this  picture,  too,  has  glided  by,  to  be  replaced  by 
another  in  this  lovely  panorama  —  a  silent  passage  through  a  dim  and 
lofty  forest  of  sombrous  pines  and  hemlocks.  The  rural  and  the  pas 
toral  are  forgotten ;  the  daisied  fields  and  waving  corn  are  banished  far 
from  the  thought.  You  are  winding  through  a  wilderness  of  nature's 
unredeemed  primeval  solitude.  No  sky  above,  nothing  but  a  sombre 
roof  that  seems  to  echo  your  very  whispers.  There  are  sounds  like 
weary  sighs  that  seem  to  float  and  linger  in  the  air,  while  on  every 
hand  the  stately  columns  close  in  upon  each  other  like  a  limitless  cathe 
dral,  and  the  cool  incense  of  the  mossy  mould  breathes  its  benediction 
all  through  the  vast  interior.  Here  dwells 

"A  presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  thoughts." 

The  impress  of  that  spirit  which  has  found  its  noblest  mortal  voice  in 
that  song  of  immortality,  "A  Forest  Hymn,"  whose  music,  like  a 
mighty  anthem,  seems  ever  floating  on  "invisible  breath"  through  the 
"stilly  twilight"  of  this  solemn  temple: 

"Ah!    why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?" 

How  grim  and  sombre  are  the  testimonies  of  this  gloomy  wilderness ! 
Here  are  old  bearded  patriarchs  who  have  looked  out  above  and  seen  a 
world  reclaimed  and  transfigured  by  the  hand  of  man,  while  their  feet 
are  rooted  in  an  ancient  cemetery  of  their  fallen  ancestry,  a  chaos  of 


28  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

graves  crowding  above  in  moss-grown  mounds,  or  down  deep  on  deep 
beneath,  crumbled,  mingled,  and  lost  in  the  shapeless  mould. 

This  ancient  retreat  is  known  as  No  Man's  Wood,  a  disputed  inher 
itance  from  by-gone  centuries,  without  deed  or  title.  For  fifty  years  it 
has  been  a  bone  of  contention  between  two  factions  in  the  town.  It  is 
claimed  by  the  descendants  of  an  old  Puritan  pioneer,  who,  it  is  stated, 
made  the  purchase  individually  from  the  Sharrapaug  Indians  for  the 
tempting  consideration  of  a  flint-lock  musket,  a  keg  of  rum,  and  a  gold 
toothpick.  Never  in  history  has  the  commercial  genius  of  the  Yankee 
had  a  more  illustrious  exemplar.  But  his  claim  could  never  be  fully 
established  to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  opposition,  consisting  of  two 
hundred  or  more  unreasonable  descendants  of  several  other  contempo 
raneous  townsmen ;  and  so  No  Man's  Wood  owes  its  existence  to  a  vil 
lage  feud.  And  blessed  be  that  feud !  may  it  linger  long  in  the  land  to 
perpetuate  this  grand  old  image  of  by -gone  ages!  May  imprecations 
fall  upon  his  head  who  shall  raise  his  axe  in  desecration  of  this  sacred 
temple  of  the  gods !  The  area  of  this  forest  covers  in  all  about  ten 
acres,  in  an  oblong  square  reaching  "from  ye  top  of  ye  mounting  known 
as  ye  Sharrapaug  Mounting,  downways  to  ye  brooke  w'h  ye  same  is 
known  as  ye  Saw  Mill  brooke,  and  bounded  on  ye  north  syde  by  Eze- 
kiel  Freeman  his  new  meddy  fence  and  on  ye  south  syde  by  a  lyne  from 
ye  branded  tree  near  ye  white  rock  on  ye  top  of  s'd  mounting,  along 
downways  by  ye  divition  of  Indione  landes  w'h  ye  same  is  in  ye  hands 
of  ye  committy  for  to  trade  on  with  s'd  Indiones,  and  downways  again 
by  y^  boundary,  w'h  ye  same  can  be  found  in  ye  deed  of  Ziby  Prindle 
his  pitch. 

"  Test.  SIMEON  TORREY,  Clerk'' 

So,  in  its  quaint  fashion,  states  the  old  town  record,  in  which  from  year 
to  year  there  is  frequent  mention  of  "  ye  s'd  pitch,"  which  latter  word 
I  gathered  to  mean  that  particular  bit  of  land  which  any  townsman 
should  "  pitch  in "  to  secure  or  select  whereon  to  "  pitch  his  tent." 
There  are  also  queer  accounts  of  "  meatings  of  ye  proprietors  of  ye 
towne  of  Trumbull  legally  meet  att  ye  house  of  jotham  nichols  in  ye  s'd 
town;"  and  one  feels  a  sense  of  reproach  toward  a  scribe  who  should 
thus  refuse  his  fellow-townsman  even  the  ordinary  courtesy  and  dignity 
of  the  proper  noun ;  but  how  quickly  is  that  unjust  aspersion  dispelled 
by  that  revelation  of  charming  modesty  below!  where  we  discover  the 
same  name  thus  inscribed,  "  Test,  jotham  nichols,  clerk."  The  "  meat- 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  29 

ings"  in  question  were  those  connected  with  the  project  of  this  very 
road,  which,  owing  to  the  prospects  of  its  heavy  tax  levy  —  involv 
ing  as  it  did  the  further  purchase  of  a  considerable  tract  of  Indian 
land — had  stirred  the  county  for  miles  around  in  a  long  and  exciting 
controversy. 

We  learn  that  it  was  "  voated  down"  by  popular  clamor  at  the  time. 
But  a  farther  search  among  those  tattered  pages  reveals  the  existence  of  a 
rarely  level-headed  Puritan  ancestry,  and  as  generous  a  type  of  hospitality 
as  ever  turned  the  tables  in  the  political  campaigns  of  their  illustrious 
posterity.  Here,  under  date  of  December  30,  1712,  we  read  as  follows: 
"  The  inhabitants  Aforesd  made  choyce  of  Ezekiel  Freeman  and  Jere 
miah  Turney  a  committy  for  To  measure  ye  lande  and  settle  ye  boundes 
With  ye  Indiones,  and  also  to  procure  four  Gallons  of  rume  to  treate  ye 
indiones  and  to  refresh  ymselves,  &  charge  ye  Townes  debter  for  ye 
rume  &  all  other  charge  &  troble  necessary  in  complecting  ye  same." 

Under  such  all -potent  influences  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  the 
"  committy "  carried  the  day.  The  road  was  shortly  after  an  accom 
plished  fact ;  and  it  were  safe  to  affirm  that,  save  upon  the  pathway  of 
this  road,  no  mortal  man  has  ever  crossed  the  boundaries  of  this  wood. 
Not  but  that  he  might  do  it ;  but  few  there  are,  unless  impelled  by  the 
fever  of  exploration  or  scientific  research,  who  would  care  to  penetrate 
its  almost  impassable  jungle  of  craggy  branches,  or  its  waist-deep  bar 
riers  of  damp  and  mouldering  debris  hidden  from  sight  beneath  great 
beds  and  pillows  and  domes  of  light-green  fern-moss. 

There  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  winding  drive  through  this  grand  old 
aisle ;  and  when  soon  again  we  feel  the  warm  air  floating  in  from  the 
outer  world,  it  is  to  look  ahead,  as  through  a  great  Gothic  portal,  where 
opens  up  a  charming  contrast  of  sunny  road,  winding  .along  among  idyl 
lic  pastoral  scenes,  of  sunny  cottages  peeping  out  among  the  trees,  of 
thrifty  farms  and  fields  of  grain,  and  pleasant  sounds  of  rural  life  and 
husbandry,  and,  surmounting  all,  a  distance  of  magnificent  sublimity, 
where  lofty  mountain -slopes  softly  mottled  with  gliding  shadows  loom 
up  on  every  .side,  with  here  a  pine -clad  crest  sharply  cut  against  a 
hovering,  sunlit  cloud,  and  there  a  rugged  peak,  lost  in  the  blue  and 
hazy  gloom  of  some  majestic,  luminous  pile  that  seems  to  have  stopped 
in  its  airy  journey  to  rest  and  linger  lovingly  upon  the  towering  sum 
mit,  cooling  and  sheltering  the  sun -scorched  brow  in  the  depths  of 
its  refreshing  shadow.  And  how  exquisite  the  gliding  grace  of  that 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


pearly  shadow  as   it  floats   and  paints   its   ceaseless   changes   across  the 
landscape !     Now  sliding  down  the  wooded  mountain,  taking  by  surprise 


GOSSIP   AND    TWITTER. 


some  isolated  clump  of  hemlocks  that  start  out  dark  and  gloomy  from 
their  obscurity;   now  stealing  unawares   upon   some   laughing  water-fall, 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  3! 

whose  roguish  winking  is  changed  to  a  sober  frown.  And  now  it 
creeps  upon  the  edge  of  yonder  field  of  daisies :  see  them  toss  and  frolic 
in  this  respite  from  the  scorching  heat ;  and  how  quickly  are  they  left 
again  to  burst  forth  in  their  silvery  waving  billows !  The  toiling  farmer 
among  the  windrows  in  the  hay -scented  field  greets  the  refreshing 
shadow  as  it  passes,  and  stops  to  lift  his  hat  and  drink  in  its  welcome 
coolness,  and  the  linnet  panting  with  open  bill  upon  the  fence  near  by 
finds  heart  for  a  few  sweet  notes  of  thanks. 

Yonder  distant  mountain,  which  but  a  moment  ago  was  luminous  in 
sunlight,  is  now  a  deep-blue  mystery;  and  against  its  lurid  expanse,  as 
if  it  were  a  lowering  sky,  the  village  cupolas  and  gables  seem  to  dance 
like  sunny  white  caps  in  their  sea  of  waving  elms  and  maples,  with  here 
and  there  a  jutting  spire  and  flashing  weather-vane  gleaming  like  an 
illumined  light -house,  and  glittering  flocks  of  pigeons,  too,  that  seem 
less  like  doves  than  sporting  gulls.  Were  you  to  ask  this  youngster 
who  now  approaches  you  on  the  road,  seated  on  a  pile  of  meal -bags 
whose  weight  bears  down  the  sag  of  his  long  span  buckboard  nearly 
to  the  turf  —  it  will  surely  run  aground  upon  the  next  full  thank-you- 
marm — but  were  you  to  ask  him  the  name  of  this  charming  town,  whose 
homes  are  now  so  thickly  sprinkled  among  the  roadside  farms,  he  would 
doubtless  tell  you  that  this  is  "  East  Trumble,"  and  that  farther  along, 
over  the  bridge,  you  would  come  to  "  Trumble  Centre."  We  have  not 
long  since  passed  "  Trumbull  Four-Corners  "  (probably  referring  to  the 
rectangles  of  the  single  house  or  barn  in  the  township),  and  you  may 
be  perfectly  sure  that  before  your  ride  is  finished  you  will  have  enjoyed 
the  separate  attractions  of  Trumbull  proper,  Trumbull  Station,  Trum 
bull  Junction,  West  Trumbull,  and  perhaps  lots  of  other  little  Trum- 
bulls — Trumbull  Mills,  possibly,  or  Trumbull's  Falls.  And  if  you  only 
inquire  along  the  way  during  the  next  hour,  you  will  have  the  name  of 
that  beautiful  little  town  beyond  as  firmly  impressed  on  your  memory 
as  are  the  ever-changing  pictures  of  its  lanes  and  roadsides. 

But  now  all  sight  of  its  gables  and  steeples  has  left  us,  having 
dodged  behind  a  jutting  grove  of  maples,  birches,  and  beeches,  beneath 
whose  canopy  we  are  soon  winding,  where  the  road  is  carpeted  far 
ahead  in  sidelong  bands  of  sunlight,  and  gently  moving  shadows  play 
among  the  branches  and  the  mottled  tree -trunks.  Here  we  are  sud 
denly  walled  in  by  tall  precipices  of  rock  hanging  full  with  trickling 
ferns  that  nod  and  jump  with  the  falling  drops  from  the  bursting 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


THE    S\VAYIX<;    SHADOW. 


springs  among  its  crevices, 
where  trailing  garlands  of  ad- 
lumia  drape  the  rugged  sur 
face  in  graceful  arabesques, 
looping  its  airy  fringe  from 
crag  to  crag,  and  throwing  a 
bower  of  its  tender  green 
above  the  laurels  and  the 
overhanging  shrubbery. 

And  when  we  once  more 
emerge  into  the  open  light  it 
is  to  creep  along  where  hazel 
thickets  crowd  close  upon  our 
wheels,  and  great  tall  wreaths 
of  high-vine'  bramble  bend  be 
neath  their  weight  of  purple 
fruit.  If  you  notice  your 
pony  now  you  will  see  him 
prick  up  his  ears  for  some 
little  surprise  he  has  learned 
to  expect  from  among  this 
roadside  jungle. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  little  blue- 
eyed  maiden  who  suddenly 
appears  from  her  obscurity. 
She  holds  in  her  uplifted 
hands  a  small  tray  of  tiny 
birch-bark  baskets  piled  full  of 
choice  selected  fruit.  "  Would 
you  like  some  blackberries, 
sir  ?"  she  will  say,  with  a 
sweetly  modulated  voice  and 
a  charming  pink  blush,  whose 
combined  effect  cannot  but 
arouse  every  spark  of  your 
latent  gallantry;  and  of  course 
you  leave  her  with  an  empty 
tray,  smiling  and  happy  as  she 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  ^ 

counts  her  little  handful  of  your  pennies.  Or  perhaps  it  is  those  two 
everlasting  boys,  announced  by  the  racket  of  their  tin  pails,  who  ap 
proach  with  anxious  faces  to  tell  you  that  your  horse  has  "got  a  bone 
in  his  leg "  or  a  "  nail  in  his  foot."  And  you  are  quite  willing  that  such 
a  serious  misfortune  should  afflict  him,  if  only  to  afford  the  glimpse  of  the 
convulsive  pleasure  it  awakens  in  those  ruddy,  berry-stained  faces  beneath 
their  broad  straw  hats.  I  can  see  those  luminous  little  faces  now,  with 
their  healthful  color  all  aglow  and  beaming,  from  the  golden  radiance 
which  shone  down  upon  them  from  those  sunlit  hat-brims ;  and  distinctly 
do  I  hear  those  clinking  pails,  the  merry  giggle,  and  the  thud,  thud  of 
the  little,  tough  bare  feet  trotting  out  of  sight  along  the  dusty  road. 

The  element  of  surprise  becomes  an  incessant  forecast  along  one  of 
these  roads.  If  it  is  even  a  rustic  conversation  within  ear-shot  of  the 
highway,  it  is  sure  to  furnish  its  item  of  the  unexpected,  either  to  arrest 
your  attention  or  arouse  your  curiosity. 

"  Say,  Chauncey,"  I  remember  hearing  in  a  yell  across  a  potato-patch, 
"wen  iz  thet  ar  funerul  a -cummin'  off?"  Or,  on  another  occasion,  a 
choice  selection  reserved  for  my  especial  benefit  in  an  evening  talk  over 
the  front  picket-fence,  presumably  about  a  new  yoke  of  steers : 

"  Wa'al,  no,  he  ain't  ezacly  contrery ;  but  t'uther's  willin'  to  haul  it, 
'n'  he's  pleggy  willin'  he  shud ;  'n'  how  he  doos  haul !  Gret  guns !  I 
wished  yeu  cud  jest  run  up  'n'  see  him.  I  vaow,  his  eyes  stick  aout  so's 
yeu  cud  hang  yer  hat  on  to  'um." 

I  had  listened  one  day  for  a  good  half-hour  to  a  long  harangue  that 
in  some  way  came  as  a  natural  consequence  to  my  simple  question, 
"  Neighbor,  can  you  tell  me  what  place  this  is  ?" 

"  Trumbull  Four  Corners,"  he  replied ;  and  then  followed  —  how  I 
don't  exactly  remember,  but  it  came  as  a  matter  of  course — that  long, 
one-sided  conversation,  full  of  remarkable  achievements  in  the  way  of 
trappin',  fishin',  and  fox-huntin',  till  at  length  I  glanced  at  my  watch, 
and,  gathering  up  the  reins,  concluded  to  cut  it  short. 

"  Well,  neighbor,"  said  I,  good-naturedly,  at  my  first  chance  to  get  in 
a  word,  "  there's  one  thing  that  you  certainly  know  how  to  do,  and  that 
is  entertain"'  But  he  was  sharp  enough  to  detect  a  possible  hidden 
intention  in  the  word. 

"  Wa'al,"  he  immediately  replied,  while  a  broad  smile  started  at  his 
mouth  and  gradually  spread  all  over  among  the  wrinkles  of  his  good- 
natured  face,  "  I  cal'late  you're  ez  gud  ez  thet  ar  hen  yender,  ain't  ye  ?" 

3 


34 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


"  Am  I  to  take  that  as  a  gentle  hint  for  me  to  *  scratch  gravel  ?' "  I 
inquired,  getting  ready  to  start. 

"  Not  'tall,  not  'tall,"  replied  he,  deprecatingly.  "  But  naow  jest  look 
on't :  thet  ar  hen  hez  gut  a  lot  o'  sweepiris  thar,  but  she  knows  enuff  t' 
pick  aout  the  kernels  "ri  leave  the  chaff"' 

"  Perhaps  there  are  no  kernels,"  suggested  I,  thoughtfully. 

"  Ah,  the  kernels  is  thar,  I'm  thinkin',"  he  continued,  with  a  knowing 
look.  "  They're  thar,  er  else  she  wudn't  a  be  a-wastin  on  her  vallable 
time,  yeu  kin  depend  on't." 

Talk  of  the  characteristic  blurting  propensities  of  the  blunt  New 
Englander !  I  have  known  a  "  blunt  New  Englander "  to  give  a  home- 
thrust  couched  in  satire  the  keenest  and  most  subtle,  and  which  came 
as  naturally  as  his  very  breath. 

In  all  my  experience  I  fail  to  recall  a  single  instance  of  such  a  con 
versation  which  has  not  been  characterized  by  some  rare  bit  of  homely 
wisdom,  some  rich  outcropping  of  mother -wit,  or  remarkable  develop 
ment  of  unique  personality.  Sometimes,  to  be  sure,  u  a  grain  among 
chaff,"  but  more  often  a  continuous  stream  of  bursting  bubbles  of  indi 
vidual  character,  almost  worthy  of  stenographic  reproduction  in  its  en 
tirety.  The  dialect  is  always  fascinating;  and  while  I  would  not  detract 
one  jot  from  the  rare  humor  of  many  of  its  sentiments,  it  must  be  ad 
mitted  that  they  often  seem  to  lose  half  their  sparkle  when  deprived  of 
their  quaint  setting,  and  transferred  to  a  page  of  type.  For  it  is  not 
alone  the  dialect ;  there  is  the  peculiar*  inflection  and  intonation,  that 
queer,  low-down  "  ga  hunk!"  inimitable  and  indescribably  funny,  and, 
added  to  these,  gestures  so  remarkable  and  unexpected  that,  after  all, 
when  written,  it  seems  folly  to  depict  one  phase  of  all  this  character, 
and  leave  out  perforce  so  much  else  that  is  necessary  to  enforce  it  and 
give  it  true  vitality. 

But,  while  the  eye  has  been  charmed  by  the  constant  freshness  and 
variety  of  these  way-side  pictures,  there  is  another  subtle  influence  which 
has  softly  stolen  upon  our  senses.  They  have  felt  its  touch  and  heard 
its  music  while  we  listened  almost  unaware.  It  is  the  medley  of  that 
ever-present  hum  of  rural  life,  whose  harmony  floats  in  the  air  we 
breathe,  and  brings  new  melody  with  every  passing  breeze.  Perhaps 
the  ringing  beats  of  some  far-distant  scythe,  wafted  but  for  a  moment, 
and  then  lost  again,  or  the  "cock's  shrill  clarion"  far  away.  Now  it  is 
the  clinking  wheel  of  some  busy  mower  or  reaper,  bringing  with  it  a 


ALONG    THE    ROAD. 


35 


welcome  whiff  from  the  scented  field,  or,  again,  the  mellow  cooing  of  the 
doves  upon  some  neighboring  roof  —  a  continuous  roundelay,  sustained 
and  borne  along  upon  a  soft,  sweet  undertone  of  mingled  murmuring 
leaves,  the  hum  of  bees,  and  cricket -songs,  and  twitterings  of  a  thou 
sand  swallows,  all  united  in  one  perpetual  chord  of  jubilee.  And  to 
us  "  who  in  sad  cities  dwell,"  what  a  charming  contrast  it  all  is  from 


A    WELCOME    SIGNAL. 


:<  fe^~ 

that     overwhelming     discord     of    the 

teeming   life    and   whirl  of  the   great 
metropolis,  with    its    perpetual    rum 
bling  traffic   stirring  our  very  foun 
dations,  and  still-  lingering  in   one's 
ears;   its  muffled  mutterings  of  man 
ufactures,    and     rattling     presses,   and 

quivering  pulsations  of  its  great  chaos  of  machinery ;  and,  beneath  all 
this  significance  of  prosperity,  its  grim  records  of  strife  and  crime,  its 
life-battles  lost  and  won,  its  fierce  and  tireless  warfare  of  competition, 
and  the  feverish  desperation  of  its  thousands  upon  thousands  of  human 
souls  in  that  great  unceasing  struggle  for  existence  ! 

How  soothing  the  quiet  peace    of  this   New   England   road!     How 
pleasantly  sounds   its  slightest  voice   of  liberty!     Even   this   unmusical, 


36  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

sleepy  grunt  from  the  old  way -side  pig -pen  has  in  it  a  welcome 
element  of  contentment.  But  we  will  stop  there.  That  is  all  that 
can  be  said  of  it.  We  will  take  its  significance  for  what  it  is  worth, 
and  look  no  farther  for  its  verity,  for  there  is  another  more  inviting 
picture  near. 

See  this  long  bouquet  of  "bouncing  Bet,"  stramonium,  and  tansy  that 
follows  along  the  foundations  of  this  old  gray  barn,  and  that  graceful, 
swaying  shadow  of  the  plumy  golden-rod  gliding  to  and  fro  upon  the 
sunny  boards !  Now  we  hear  the  cackling  of  a  hen  behind  those  boards, 
and  we  know  she  is  flying  from  that  snug  stolen  hollow  in  the  hay-mow. 
Now  comes  the  lowing  of  the  imprisoned  cow,  answering  an  echo  of 
sympathy  from  some  neighboring  barn. 

And  hark  how  the  very  timbers  of  that  old  barn  seem  tuned  in  uni 
son  with  that  call !  how  they  seem  to  hold  and  prolong  the  sound,  until 
it  is  lost  in  the  perpetual  chorus !  Perhaps  a  great  ado  among  some 
flock  of  ducks.  You  hear  the  gurgling  rattle  of  that  scolding  drake, 
and  can  almost  see  his  waddle,  and  the  barking  dog  which  is  giving  him 
such  a  lively  chase.  And  what  is  this  ?  The  scraping  of  a  pan,  that 
magic  signal  at  whose  bidding  all  barn-yard  feuds  and  quarrels  are  dis 
pelled,  at  which  the  waddling  ducks,  the  husky,  hissing  geese,  and  mot 
ley  hens  unite  in  a  stampede  of  mutuality  and  a  chorus  of  unanimity. 
The  regal  peacock  and  the  cantankerous  Shanghai  meet  on  common 
ground  at  the  scraping  of  the  pan ;  and  even  his  majesty  the  lordly  gob 
bler  for  a  moment  forgets  his  dignity,  and  condescends  to  mingle  with 
the  crowd,  and  even  soil  his  plumage  by  an  actual  jostle  against  that 
resplendent  train,  those  peerless  plumes,  at  whose  rival  beauty  he  is 
even  yet  so  blue  in  the  face.  The  flock  of  pigeons,  too,  whose  whistling 
wings  betray  their  coming,  have  heard  that  welcome  note  far  up  among 
the  clouds,  and  presently  we  see  their  nodding  heads  among  the  pell- 
mell  scramble. 

I  remember  in  one  of  my  Trumbull  sketching  rambles  stopping  on 
the  road  and  witnessing  some  such  scene  as  this.  It  was  in  one  of 
those  picturesque  old  door-yards,  with  its  glittering  tins,  its  coops,  its 
bleaching  clothes ;  its  strings  of  dried  apples  festooned  against  the 
sunny  clapboards,  and  rows  of  half -colored  tomatoes  ripening  on  the 
window-sills,  and  a  hundred  other  equally  insignificant  things,  by  no 
means  without  their  "values,"  however,  either  to  artist  or  rural  pos 
sessor  ;  and  as  I  stood  (squinting,  I  dare  say)  noting  down  the  relative 


degrees   of  tone  between 
that  sun-gleam  on  the  tin  pan, 
for  instance,  and  the  highest  light 
on  the   white  cloth  in  the  grass, 
or    contrasting    the    lights    on   the 
black  garment  by  its  side  with  the 
depth   of  tone  of  the  dark  door-way  of 
the  barn,  all  preliminary  to  my  proposed 
sketch — while  thus  taking  notes  I  remember  there  was  a  swinging  noise 
of  the   front   gate.      I   turned    and   saw   a   long,  swaggering    individual 


38  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

walking  up  the  path  toward  his  house ;  and  there  was  something  in 
his  appearance,  even  in  his  back  view,  which  immediately  appealed  to 
my  utilitarian  impulses,  then  on  the  rampage;  and  something  said 
within  me,  "  More  material ;  yell  at  him  before  he  is  gone."  And  I 
yelled,  "  Hello,  neighbor !"  He  simply  turned  and  looked  at  me,  await 
ing  some  show  of  reason  for  my  peremptory  challenge.  And  I  found 
I  had  to  wait  for  it  myself.  At  last  it  came,  and  I  stammered  it  forth : 
"  Can  you  tell  me  who  owns  that  thick  patch  of  woods  back  on  the 
road  about  half  a  mile  ?" 

He  turned  the  right  side  of  his  face  toward  me,  with  a  slight 
forward  inclination,  as  though  to  listen  with  his  best  ear,  while  a  one 
sided  squint  lifted  up  one  cheek,  completely  closing  the  eye,  and  at 
the  same  time  disclosing  to  view  through  his  scanty  gray  mustache 
two  long  eye-teeth,  the  only  visible  dental  ornaments  of  which  he  was 
possessed. 

The  amount  of  facial  expression  capable  of  being  conveyed  by  the 
human  teeth  increases  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  their  number;  and  while 
it  is  usually  a  gain  in  quantity  at  the  expense  of  quality,  I  have  known 
a  single  tooth  to  do  more  duty  in  this  respect  than  lay  within  the  pos 
sibilities  of  a  whole  mouthful.  Such  was  the  case  in  the  instance 
of  the  present  individual.  He  stood  in  this  position  without  moving 
a  muscle  for  fully  half  a  minute,  and  then  broke  silence  in  this  wise, 
"Ha-a-a-a!?" 

I  know  of  no  other  way  adequately  to  suggest  the  peculiar  intona 
tion  and  inflection  of  this  typical  New  England  query.  Imagine  a  man 
with  a  drawling  nasal  voice,  who  for  about  ten  seconds  has  been  striving 
to  pronounce  the  word  "hang,"  and  whose  breath  gives  out  before  he 
can  reach  the  g,  and  it  will  in  a  measure  suggest  the  character  of  this 
sound,  which  for  some  reason  seems  almost  inseparable  from  a  squint  or 
some  distortion  of  the  face. 

"  I  was  asking  if  you  could  tell  me  who  owned  those  very  old  woods 
back  on  the  road  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Sure  'nuff — sure  'nuff,"  replied  he,  approaching  me  with  a  disjointed, 
limping  gait,  with  every  footstep  giving  out  a  soggy  wheeze  from  his  old 
wet  boots.  "  Yeu  mean  them  zx  pines  a  piece  daown  the  road  yender?" 
continued  he,  indicating  the  direction  with  the  open  blade  of  a  huge 
jack-knife  which  he  held. 

"  Precisely.     Do  you  know  who  owns  them  ?" 


ALONG    THE    ROAD. 


39 


"Wa'al,  yis;  shudn't  wunder  ef  I  did,"  he  drawled,  resuming  with 
a  satisfied  and  self-important  air — "shudn't  wunder  ef  I  did.  This 
'ere  indiwidooal  owns  'um  ez  much  ez  ennybody,  but  et  present  reck- 
'nin'  they  ain't  nobody  in  taown  but  wut  owns  'um.  I  never  see  sech 
goin's-on  ez  they  iz  abaout  thet  ar  piece  o'  graound.  Ye  see,"  con 
tinued  he,  settling  down  an  inch  or  two  as  he  stood,  and  emphasizing 
his  remarks  by  a  sort  of  double  baton  movement  with  his  jack-knife- 
blade  and  outstretched  finger — "  ye  see,  my  gran  their  wuz  the  'riginal 
owner  on't,  'n'  he  gut  it  in  trade  from  old  Squire  Nathan  Sanford,  who 
gut  it  d'rect  from  the  Sharrapaug  Injins  ;  'n'  he  gut  the  deed,  teu,  with 
all  the  Injins'  marks  'n'  sines  'n'  sech  onto  it. — But  darn  his  picter !  the 
pesky  old  fool ! — Naow,  look  eeah  :  I  don't  make  no  bones  '  abaout  my 
'pinion  o'  my  gran'ther,  'n'  everybody  knows  on't :  he  wuz  nuthin'  but 
a  reg'lar  old  dunce  heels,  'n'  thet's  the  treuth  on't.  But  thar !  he's  ded 
'n'  gone,  poor  feller,  'n'  I  ain't  agoin'  to  say  nuthin'  agin  the  ded ;"  and  a 
look  of  penitence  would  seem  to  close  in  around  those  two  teeth.  "  But, 
ye  see,  he  held  thet  ar  deed,  'n'  the  pesky  old  fool  never  knowed  enuff 
to  git  it  recorded,  'n'  wuz  so  'tarnal  shif'less  thet  he  ended  in  goin'  'n' 
losin'  on't,  er  hidin'  on't,  er  suthin' ;  leastwise  they  hain't  never  seen  hide 
ner  hair  on't  sence,  'n'  they  hez  bin  more  spiteful  quarrellin'  'n'  fitin' 
cum  by  thet  consarned  idjit  then  hiz  hide  wuz  wuth.  But  thar !"  said 
he,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  with  the  same  look  of  pseudo-penitence 
lurking  behind  that  thin  mustache,  "  he's  ded  'n'  gone,  poor  feller,  'n'  I 
ain't  one  o'  them  az  iz  goin'  to  say  anythin'  agin  the  ded." 

During  this  latter  refrain  I  had  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  restlessly 
scanning  the  ground  around  where  he  stood,  when  suddenly,  in  a  mar 
vellous  fashion,  he  hung  himself  over  the  top  of  the  tall  picket-fence, 
and  picked  up  something  on  the  ground  outside.  It  was  a  long  pine 
stick  lying  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  with  one  end  embedded  in  a  mud- 
puddle.  He  turned  it  over,  looked  at  it  as  if  in  deep  thought,  wiped 
the  muddy  end  in  his  long  gray  hair,  and  finished  the  process  on  his 
shirt-sleeve,  and  then  with  his  newly-ground  blade  took  off  one  long, 
thin,  curling  shaving  along  its  entire  length. 

"  That  was  rather  unfortunate  for  his  descendants,  I  should  imag 
ine  ?"  suggested  I,  resuming. 

"  Unfortnit !  shudn't  wunder  ef  it  wuz.  Twas  a  'tarnal  sight  wuss  : 
'twas  a  cu'ss,  thet's  wut  it  wuz.  Thet  ar  piece  mite  a  bin  a  putty 
prop'ty  fer  sum  'un  ;  but  naow  haow  is't  ?  Wy,  the  only  legicy  wut 


4o 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


thet  old  fool  hez  left  iz  a  pesky  shindig  ez  keeps  this  'ere  taown 
a-fitin'  the  hull  year  roun'.  I  vaow,  he  wuz  a  reg'lar  old  dunce  heels, 
thet's  wut  he  wuz ;  he  wa'n't  good  fer  nuthin'  nohaow." 


ENOCH    EMMONS. 


This  was  the  second  use     i 
of  that  peculiar   epithet,  and 
it  had  already  aroused  my  curiosity. 

"What  on  earth  is  a  dunce  heels?" 
I   inquired,  in    order    better    to    under 
stand  its  significance. 

At  this  query  he  came  along  the  fence  in  silence,  with  a  loose,  limp 
ing  gait,  and  with  his  finger  raised  in  evident  thought  as  to  how  best 
explain  the  term ;  and  the  eager  alacrity  with  which  he  threw  his  long 
leg  over  those  bars  and  landed  himself  on  the  other  side  showed  conclu 
sively  that  he  had  solved  the  problem. 

"  Wa'al,  naow,"  he    resumed,  slowly,  leaning  back   against   the   bars, 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  4! 

and  drawing  in  his  vertebras  about  six  inches,  "  I  take  it  a  dunce  iz  a 
feller  wut  hain't  gut  no  brains  into  'im,  ain't  he  ?" 

I  assented. 

"  Ver'  good.  Wa'al,  then,  a  dunce  iz  bad  enuff,  fer  grashis  sake,  'n' 
wen  ye  git  daown  teu  his  heels — I  cal'late  a  dunce's  heel  iz  abaout  ez 
low  ez  yeu  kin  git,  ain't  it  ? — 'nless  he  wuz  a-standin'  on  his  bed — but, 
gudness  'n'  treuth !  this  ar  preshis  gran'ther  o'  mine  cud  'a  swopped 
'n'  never  known  the  difference  'ntil  he  cum  teu  his  hat.  But  thar !  he's 
ded  'n'  gone,  poor  feller,  'n'  I  ain't  one  o'  them  ez  iz  goin'  teu  quarrel 
with  the  ded.  But  ye  see  they  wa'n't  nobody  in  taown  but  wut  hated 
the  old  rarskle,  'n'  them  ez  didn't  I  swaou  they  wuz  them  kind  ez  orter 
bin  in  jail.  Lie !  Gret  Grimes !  haow  he  wild  lie  !  I  don't  blame  ye 
fer  laffin',  stranger,  but  I  wisht  yeu  cud  'a  seen  him  yerself.  But  thar  /" 
he  added,  deprecatingly,  with  uplifted  hand,  "  I  ain't  agoin'  to  say 
nothin'  agin  'im  ;  he's  ded  this  twenty  year,  'n'  hez  bed  his  fin'l  reck- 
'nin',  I  hain't  a  daoubt,  'n'  'tain't  fer  me  teu  be  a-rakin'  uv  'im  up." 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  grasping  an  opportune  occasion  for  a  little 
home-missionary  work,  and  with  a  latent  hope,  perhaps,  of  drawing  out 
some  racy  moral  developments,  "  there's  an  old  Latin  saying  which  goes 
in  this  wise,  ' De  mortuis  nil  nisi  bonum'  Did  you  ever  hear  it?" 

"Wut  is't  ?"  queried  he,  eagerly,  with  that  same  one-sided  squint 
and  tilted  ear.  "  Jest  say  thet  ar  agin,  will  ye  ?" 

I  repeated  the  quotation,  and  asked  again  if  he  ever  heard  it. 

"  Yis,  I  hev,"  answered  he  immediately,  much  to  my  surprise,  for  I 
had  anticipated  the  probable  necessity  of  its  translation,  "  I  thort  it 
sounded  kinder  nateral  like  wen  I  fust  heern  ye;  fer  that's  jest  wut 
Deac'n  Stiles  Tomlinson,  our  gret  meetin'  man,  sed  to  me  one  day  a 
spell  ago,  wen  we  wuz  hevin'  a  leetle  speritooal  talk  over  the  meddy 
fence,  like  we  hez  sometimes;  but  I  hain't  gut  no  book-larnin'  ner 
nuthin'  like  him,  'n'  he  tole  me  wut  the  meanin  on't  wuz ;  'n'  I  jes'  tole 
him,  sez  I,  thet  the  idee  wuz  a  gud  "un;  but  haow  wuz  it,  sez  I,  when 
they  wa'n't  no  gud  into  'im  wut  ennybody  could  ever  find  aout?  'n'  I 
wa'n't  agoin'  teu  commit  no  sin  by  lyiri  like  the  devil  jest  to  say  suthin' 
gud  abaout  'im ; — 'n'  I  notis  he  wuz  kinder  quiet  Like  wen  I  lit  aout  like 
thet,  'n'  I  notis  haow  he  didn't  hev  no  tex  reddy  nuther.  Cuz  wy  ? — 
cuz  he  sed  into  himself,  sez  he,  '  I  cal'late  you're  rite.'  I  know'd  he 
thort  it,  fer  Deac'n  Tomlinson  airit  no  fool  ef  he  iz  a  meetin  man,  'n'  he 
hed  his  little  bone  teu  pick  with  thet  old  thief  jest  like  the  rest  on  'urn. 


42  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

But  thar !  gudness  'n'  treuth !  I  don't  want  teu  say  nothin'  agin  the  old 
feller ;  he's  ded  'n'  gone,  'n'  thet's  the  end  on't." 

"  Were  any  of  your  grandfather's  peculiarities  hereditary  in  the  fam 
ily?"  I  inquired,  with  some  show  of  interest. 

"  Not  by  a  gret  site,"  said  he,  emphatically ;  "  he  wuz  a  pesky  mildew 
on  the  Emmons  pedigree,  'n'  everybody  knows  on't." 

"What  did  your  venerable  ancestor  die  of?"  I  inquired  farther,  with 
as  much  melancholy  solicitude  as  I  could  muster. 

"  Wa'al,  the  medicle  men  give  aout  thet  it  wuz  consumption,  but 
gudness  knows  they  wa'n't  never  enuff  on  him  fer  consumption  teu  take 
a  hold  on.  I  'spect  thet  it  reely  wuz  a  sorter  lingerin'  brekin'  up  o'  the 
body,  'n'  tord  the  last  the  doctors  killed  him  off ;  fer  he  hed  a  site  on 
'em,  'n'  took  a  drefBe  lot  o'  stuff,  'n'  none  on't  ever  done  'im  a  mossel 
o'  good.  He  got  wusser  'n'  wusser  arter  the  doctors  cum,  'n'  I  alliz  sed 
they  killed  him,  'n'  I  sed  ez  much  teu  Dr.  Farchild  et  the  funerul ;  fer 
I  tole  him  then  thet  they  wuz  more  weight  o'  pizen  thar  than  anythin' 
else,  'n'  we  hain't  swopped  a  word  sence,  'n'  thet's  nigh  cum  twenty 
year." 

During  all  this  jargon  the  pine  stick  had  gradually  dwindled  down 
long  and  trim,  and  at  this  point  he  raised  it  to  his  eye  and  took  a 
squint  along  its  length. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  make  out  of  that  ?"  I  naturally  inquired. 

"  Oh,  nawth'n  pertickler,"  he  drawled ;  "  but,  ye  see,  I  make  it  a  pint 
alliz  teu  be  a-dewin  suthin'  'ruther,  'n'  never  t'  be  a-wastin'  on  my  time. 
It's  drefBe  curus,  naow,  but  they  iz  fokes  wut — " 

He  stopped  short,  for  a  quick  slam  of  a  window -sash  interrupted 
him.  He  turned  his  head,  with  a  start,  and  in  so  doing  threw  toward 
me  a  ball  of  mud  from  his  loose  gray  hair,  while  from  the  neighborhood 
of  the  tins  at  the  pantry  window  there  came  a  sharp,  shrill  voice : 

"Enoch  Emmons,  didn't  I  tell  yeu  teu  fix  them  bars?  Thar's  the 
old  speckle  caow  in  the  corn  agin,  'n'  I  sed  it  wud  be  jes"  so ;"  and  then 
came  another  slam,  which  not  only  shut  the  window,  but  completely 
shut  off  this  stream  of  tender  reminiscence. 

"  Oh  yis,"  he  muttered,  "  sum  fokes  doos  know  a  dreffie  pile !"  and, 
with  a  comical  wink,  he  threw  away  his  stick  among  the  brambles,  shut 
his  jack-knife  with  a  snap,  and,  with  a  parting  nod,  dragged  his  soggy 
boots  in  wheezing  steps  toward  the  house. 

There  are  numerous  just  such  mines  along  this  highway,  if  you  only 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  43 

care  to  "work"  them.  In  some  the  gold,  like  tempting  "placers,"  lies 
all  in  sight.  You  can  see  it  glistening  on  the  surface,  and  it  can  be 
had  even  without  an  effort ;  but  often  it  is  hidden  beneath  a  rough  and 
stern  exterior  that  must  needs  be  explored. 

But  erelong  another  mile  has  passed,  and  now  the  smile  of  humor 
has  died  away,  replaced  by  a  sentiment  of  reverence  as  you  enter  the 
limits  of  quaint  Old  Trumbull,  and  are  passing  beneath  its  grand  old 
trees. 

There  is  a  sense  of  awe  and  loneliness  that  steals  upon  you  as  you 
turn  into  its  long  street.  And  what  is  that  strange  impulse  which  draws 
the  rein,  that  you  may  pass  slowly  and  quietly  upon  its  thoroughfare  ? 
You  look  ahead  perhaps  for  half  a  mile  upon  its  deserted  street,  straight 
and  broad,  and  silent  as  the  grave.  The  high -grown  grass  has  long 
since  closed  in  upon  its  old-time  wheel-ruts.  The  canopy  of  aged  elms 
o'erhead  throws  a  deep  and  melancholy  shadow  beneath,  in  which  those 
grim  and  sombre  houses,  mouldy,  gray,  and  moss-grown,  seem  almost 
sepulchral  in  their  strange  stillness ;  and,  while  the  sense  of  death  is  far 
from  your  thought,  those  tight -closed  doors,  those  dank  and  mildewed 
bushes,  and  windows  dark  and  mysterious,  give  more  the  impress  of  the 
tomb  than  token  of  the  living.  You  may  look  long  and  searchingly, 
but  not  a  glimpse  of  human  life  will  arrest  your  gaze,  nor  a  single  living 
sound  break  upon  that  oppressive  silence. 

Perhaps,  however,  if  you  care  to  scan  still  closer  the  shadows  of 
those  small  panes — if  you  would  seek  to  know  the  secret  of  their  mys 
terious  gloom — you  might  discover  that  aged,  wrinkled  face  beneath  its 
ruffled  cap,  with  those  kindly  eyes  lost  in  reverie,  looking  dreamily  out 
.of  the  window,  perhaps  at  the  rude-fashioned  weather-vane  upon  the  old 
barn  gable,  carved  with  boyish  hands  long  years  ago.  But  it  no  longer 
turns  upon  its  pivot ;  it  is  still ;  it  will  never  point  again  but  to  the 
joys,  the  deep  sorrows,  and  the  loved  associations  of  years  that  never 
will  return. 

Or  is  it  that  hanging  remnant  of  a  dove-cot  near  the  eaves  that 
brings  those  silent  tears  which  course  down  those  furrowed  cheeks,  and 
fall  upon  the  open  book  ?  The  dove-cot  is  not  there — nothing  but  that 
mouldering  fragment  clinging  to  its  rusty  nail.  But  yes,  there  is  a  dove 
cot  there,  for  it  sends  its  doves  in  scores  and  flocks  laden  with  mes 
sages  of  a  mother's  love  and  blessing.  They  seek  the  crowded  thor 
oughfares  and  busy  marts  of  far-off  cities,  across  the  plains,  from  ocean 


44 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


to  ocean ;  for  there  are  many  who  still  look  back  with  yearning  and 
with  longing  to  this  old  play-ground,  and  who  recall,  in  many  an  earnest 
prayer,  the  sacred,  hallowed  sweetness  of  that  dear  old  wrinkled  face. 


.  / 


A    WAY-SIDE   BARGAIN. 


How  quickly  does 
that    forbidding   gloom    and 
mystery    melt    away    under    the 
influence  of  a  single  revelation  such 

as  this !  But  it  is  not  a  mere  speculation  nor  a  fantasy ;  it  is  the  heart 
history  of  nearly  every  house  we  pass  upon  this  silent  street.  Serene 
and  blessed  people,  who  dream  away  the  later  years  of  life  in  tranquil 
reverie. 

But  that  dreamy  influence  is  not  confined  beneath  these  mossy  roofs. 
The  very  air  is  languid  with  its  presence,  and  it  has  lulled  the  land 
scape  into  drowsiness,  now  and  then  half  aroused,  perhaps,  by  the  lazy 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  45 

cackle  of  a  hen,  which  is  often  the  only  solitary  sound  of  life  that  will 
greet  your  ear  in  the  entire  length  of  this  thoroughfare;  but  even  she 
is  half  asleep,  and  you  instinctively  imagine  her,  with  closed  eyes  and 
drooping  wings,  toppling  over  in  some  sunny  corner  of  the  barnyard. 

It  is  pleasant  to  note,  however,  that  this  monotony  is  sometimes 
varied,  for  in  that  open  belfry  yonder  among  the  elms  there  reposes  a 
power  whose  lightest  touch  is  sure  to  fill  this  quiet  town  with  renewed 
life  and  interest.  The  Sabbath-morning  bell  is  the  life  of  Old  Trumbull. 
No  more  are  its  shadows  shrouded  in  mystery.  There  are  sounds  of 
opening  doors  and  windows,  slow  footfalls  on  the  wooden  walks,  low, 
lisping  voices  and  kindly  greetings  at  every  gate.  Queer  old  rattling 
wagons  jog  along  up  and  down  the  street,  and  the  way-side  hitching- 
posts  soon  present  their  long,  continuous  line  of  muddy  vehicles,  sleepy- 
looking  horses,  and  of  course  those  whisking  tails.  There  is  a  strangely 
sweet  influence  in  this  Sabbath  calm;  and  erelong,  as  you  look  across 
at  that  little  church,  you  will  find  yourself  lost  in  thought,  and  listening 
with  a  touch  of  sadness,  as  those  dear,  familiar  strains  of  old  "  Lenox  " 
or  "  Dundee  "  float  out  among  the  vaulted  elms. 

Or  perhaps  even  on  some  week-day  you  might  chance  upon  that  old 
tin-peddler  going  his  regular  round  of  gossip  and  trade.  If  so,  you  will 
certainly  halt  a  moment  to  take  a  look  at  his  remarkable  turn-out — a  sort 
of  peripatetic  junk-shop  and  circus -wagon  combined,  with  brooms  and 
feather-dusters  towering  up  like  plumes  above ;  with  glittering  tins  and 
pans,  and  huge  bursting  rag-bag  tied  on  behind,  and  an  endless  variety 
of  choice  worldly  goods  stowed  away  out  of  sight.  It  is  as  good  as 
a  circus,  too,  to  hear  him  descant,  as  I  did  once,  upon  the  great  virtues 
of  Mother  Morton's  "Cherry  Pictorial"  "a  sure  and  sartin  cure  fer  all 
affectations  of  the  liver  and  the  lungs." 

Or  maybe  it  is  a  skilful  estimate  of  the  saving  of  the  backbone  in 
the  use  of  the  "Acme,"  Sparback's  latest  improved,  extra-super-double- 
sided  zinc-fluted  washboard.  "Acme!"  —  mystic  word!  How  insignifi 
cant  is  that  pile  of  rags  in  the  garret  when  pitted  against  such  a  lovely 
household  gem !  Thus,  at  least,  would  you  read  the  sentiment  of  the 
enraptured  customer,  from  a  glance  at  her  expression.  She  is  not 
long  in  deciding.  "  Ef  they'z  rags  enuff,  Mr.  Spink,  I  b'leeve  I'll  trade 
fer  it."  He  follows  her  into  the  house,  and,  after  spending  ten  minutes 
in  the  sitting-room  in  friendly  gossip,  re-appears  tugging  the  bag  of  rags. 
They  are  weighed ;  they  kick  the  beam  and  to  spare ;  the  "  Acme  "  be- 


46  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

comes  her  priceless  treasure,  and  there  is  still  eleven  cents  due  her, 
which  she  takes  out  in  "  a  cake  o'  soap  fer  the  spar-chamber,  a  dough 
nut-cutter,  a  ball  o'  wickin',  'n'  the  rest  in  skein  cotton." 

The  New  England  tin -peddler  is  usually  a  genuine  Yankee,  of  the 
lengthy,  swivel-jointed  type;  and  it  is  well  for  him  that  he  is,  for  none 
but  a  nimble  figure  could  clamber  in  safety  up  and  down  from  that 
lofty  perch,  as  he  is  doing  from  morn  till  night. 

Under  the  title  of  Old  Trumbull  I  have  here  given  a  sketch  of  an 
old  New  England  town  just  as  I  have  often  seen  it  in  its  more  tranquil 
moods ;  but  how  easily  might  it  claim  the  title  of  Old  Hadley  or  a  hun 
dred  other  venerable  New  England  villages  of  our  Pilgrim  ancestry! 
Their  sons  are  scattered  in  every  State  and  city  of  the  Union.  How 
many  an  old  resident  could  tell  the  same  story  as  was  recited  to  me  by 
an  aged  inhabitant  of  the  above  town !  He  had  eight  sons  living ;  five 
of  them  had  left  the  old  home  to  strike  out  in  the  world.  One  was 
a  banker  in  San  Francisco ;  another  had  gone  out  among  the  mines  of 
Colorado,  and  had  made  a  "gret  success;"  and  one  was  "into  Congress 
daown  to  Wushin'ton."  "  In  the  summer-time  me  'n'  Phebe  likes  to 
come  up  'n'  stay  et  the  old  home ;  but  in  the  winter  we  go  daown  to 
York  teu  visit  with  our  son  John,  who  is  into  politics,  "n  doiri  well  T 
Innocent  old  soul !  His  other  three  sons  had  bought  land  over  the 
river  in  New  Trumbull,  and  were  the  "  likeliest  farmers  in  the  caounty." 
And  thus  the  new  town  has  been  built  up.  It  is  the  home  of  the  new 
generation.  It  has  its  bank,  its  opera-house,  its  handsome  dwellings  and 
close-clipped  lawns,  large  academies,  and  new  stone  churches  with  velvet- 
cushioned  seats  and  illuminated  windows.  Two  large  hotels  attract  the 
annual  hegira  from  the  cities,  and  the  streets  are  gay  with  their  car 
riages  and  fashionable  equipages. 

There  are  three  ways  of  crossing  the  river  from  the  old  to  the  new 
town.  The  most  direct  is  by  the  ancient  rope -ferry,  but  you  can  also 
take  the  toll -bridge  or  the  ford,  and  you  generally  end  by  trying  all 
three.  The  rope-ferry  is,  perhaps,  the  most  novel,  and  when  you  reach 
the  water's  edge  you  look  in  vain  for  any  sign  of  ferry  conveyance. 
But  soon  you  will  espy  the  long  tin  horn  hanging  on  the  post  near 
by,  and  a  single  blast  will  bring  the  old  flat-boat  across  the  river.  And 
as  you  glide  out  into  the  current  it  is  pleasant  to  listen  to  the  slapping 
of  the  water  beneath  the  broad  ends,  or  the  rustling  of  the  weeds  and 
lily -pads  beneath  the  bottom;  and  you  feel  almost  a  pathetic  interest 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  47 

in  that  stooping  but  swarthy  old  man,  as  he  pulls  upon  the  submerged 
wire  cable  which  lifts  from  the  river-bed  its  dripping  eel -grass,  and 
rattles  along  the  pulleys  at  the  edge  of  the  boat. 

For  thirty  years  this  old  ferryman  has  done  duty  at  this  crossing, 
living  in  that  little  cottage  at  the  water's  edge.  He  has  been  deaf  this 
many  a  year.  You  will  yell  long  and  loud  before  that  face  will  show 
an  expression  of  comprehension,  but  the  sound  of  the  old  tin  horn  is 
sure  to  find  an  echo  in  some  sympathetic  chord  beneath  that  silent 
sense ;  for  he  will  tell  you  that  he  does  not  hear  it,  and  will  add,  "  I 
kinder  feel  it  inside,  'n'  I  jes'  drop  my  spade  'n'  run,  'n'  theys  alwuz 
some  'un  thar." 

If  you  ever  find  yourself  doubting  which  road  to  take  when  in  quest 
of  a  pleasant  drive,  it  is  always  safe  to  conclude  upon  the  "  river  road." 
It  may  lack  the  elements  of  broad  panoramic  views,  with  hazy  hills 
melting  away  into  the  distant  blue  horizon.  It  probably  will.  But 


THE   TOLL-BRIDGE. 


they  will  be  replaced  by  other  pictures  which  will  come  much  closer  to 
you,  while  you  will  also  be  sure  to  find  many  of  the  same  features  com 
mon  to  the  "  mountain  road "  and  other  roads.  Their  trickling  cliffs, 
with  their  nodding  columbines  and  mountain  laurels;  their  way-side 
thickets  of  sumac,  elders,  mountain  raspberry,  and  moose-wood,  with  its 
large  heart-shaped  leaves,  so  checkered,  splashed,  and  blotched  with  crim 
son,  as  though  painted  by  the  falling  drops  of  "red  ink"  from  those 
poke -berries  hanging  in  such  long  clusters  above  them.  You  will  be 


48  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

sure  to  creep  along  the  edge  of  that  field  of  clover,  timothy,  and  purple 
grasses,  with  its  nodding  lilies  and  its  dusty  milk-weeds ;  you  will  see 
the  mowers  swing  their  scythes ;  and  you  will  watch  and  laugh  again 
and  again  at  the  gushing  ardor  of  those  comical  bobolinks  fluttering 
through  the  air  in  their  pell-mell  rhapsody,  and  dropping  exhausted  in 
the  grass,  or  alighting,  out  of  breath,  upon  the  jutting  fence-rail. 

And  then  you  will  leave  the  darkness  of  some  hemlock-grove  to  open 
out  upon  that  old  rickety  toll-bridge  which  we  all  remember.  At  your 
approach  a  queer  little  old  man  will  appear,  stepping  lazily  from  his 
door-way  near  the  end  of  the  bridge,  and  perhaps  also  his  pretty,  red- 
lipped,  buxom  daughter;  and  you  will  be  certain  to  look  to  and  fro  from 
one  to  the  other  in  utter  amazement  at  such  a  possible  freak  of  nature. 
If  it  is  he,  he  will  look  you  over,  and  take  you  all  in  through  his  big 
blue  goggles  in  his  own  good  time ;  and  should  he  be  the  little  dried-up 
old  specimen  that  I  remember,  he  will  then  remark,  with  outstretched 
claw,  "  They's  three  on  ye,  caountin'  the  hoss — fifteen  cents."  Or  if  it 
is  she —  Ah  !  how  shall  I  describe  her  ?  How  welcome  the  contrast  of 
that  small  pink  palm !  How  soft  and  brown  the  roguish  eyes,  looking 
out  beneath  the  shadow  of  that  shapely,  sunlit  hand !  "  Fifteen  cents, 
if  you  please."  A  voice  from  a  rose-bud!  Alas!  did  ever  such  lend 
itself  to  words  more  commonplace?  And,  by -the -way,  while  you  are 
fumbling  so  absently  for  the  change — if  you  will  permit  a  friendly  sug 
gestion —  you  would  make  a  much  more  expeditious  matter  of  it  were 
you  to  fix  your  eyes  more  closely  upon  your  pocket-book,  and  less  upon 
those  moist,  red  lips  and  those  white  teeth  and  the  golden-brown  of  that 
flowing,  sunny  hair.  I  have  said  "  it  is  always  safe  to  take  the  river 
road,"  but  perhaps  I  spoke  unguardedly.  Remembering  the  trite  adage, 
"  Do  not  cross  the  bridge  until  you  come  to  it."  I  had  forgotten  that 
the  old  toll-bridge,  however  rickety  or  perilous,  may  have  its  greatest 
danger  even  at  the  threshold.  But,  in  spite  of  all,  who  would  not  pay 
toll  at  such  a  threshold  ? 

Passing  on  to  the  bridge  —  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  look  this 
way — here  are  the  same  flashing  sun  reflections  glinting  upward  through 
the  cracks  from  the  rushing  ripples  below,  at  which  your  "hoss"  is  sure 
to  bend  his  neck  and  prick  up  his  ears  while  stepping  gingerly  on  the 
loose,  flopping  boards.  And  now  a  white-breasted  phcebe-bird  flies  up 
from  beneath  and  perches  on  the  jutting  timbers ;  but  he  shows  no  sign 
of  fear — indeed,  will  even  lift  his  little  wing  and  preen  his  feathers  as 


ALONG    THE    ROAD. 


49 


you  pass.  He  has  heard  those  noisy,  flopping  boards  since  first  he 
pipped  his  shell,  and  so  did  his  parents  before  him.  And  there  is  even 
now  a  little  mate  sitting  upon  a  nestful  of  snow-white  eggs,  perhaps 
directly  beneath  your  wheels,  on  some  mud -plastered  shelf  or  cranny 
among  the  beams.  And  what  a  romantic  little  life  is  hers,  with  the 
sound  of  the  rushing  water  ever  in  her  ears,  and  suspended  between 
two  such  beautiful  living  pictures  up  and  down  the  river,  enclosed  within 
the  frames  of  those  overhanging  planks  and  huge  stone  piers ! 

As  you   near  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge  the  water  becomes  still 
and  dark.     If  you  should  stand  and  peep 
over  the  edge  into   the  depths  below, 
you    might    see    the    flash    of   some 
shining  dace  or  minnow 
sporting  in  the  water, 
or    perhaps   by    care 
ful  search  among 
those  weeds  near 
er  the  bank  you 
might  discov 
er  that  sly 


•  "*"••-.  v*>     \    ,• '   • 


pickerel,  with  his  nose  just  out  of  water,  among 
the  floating  hearts  and  eel-grass.  The  screeching  kingfisher  will  be  sure 
to  pay  you  a  call  in  his  regular  round,  alighting  on  that  craggy  willow- 
branch  half-hidden  by  its  clambering  grape-vine.  He  too  will  watch  for 
that  silvery  gleam  down  in  the  water,  perhaps  make  a  dive  and  splash, 
and,  glancing  upward,  pass  on  screeching  beneath  you  to  try  again  from 
his  next  perch  below  the  bridge. 

And  here  comes  that  funny  little  "  teenter  bird,"  always  off  his  bal 
ance,  bobbing  and  tipping  on  his  slender  legs  as  he  runs  along  the  edge 
of  the  gravelly  beach.  And  if  he  comes  within  your  reach  just  throw 


HIGHWAYS    AND    JBYWAYS. 


a  stone  or  two  at  him,  and  see  how  queerly  he  will  behave.  Most  birds 
would  find  in  such  a  reception  a  forcible  hint  to  move  on ;  but  this 
little  creature  seems  as  much  off  his  balance  in  his  intellect  as  in  his 


FOLLOWING   THE    RIPPLE. 


gait,  for    he    will    fly    and 
chirp    and    flutter    around    that 
stone  without  an  idea  of  his  danger. 
And  before  you  leave  those  rumbling 
timbers   you   cannot   help   but  take    a 
look   at  that   thrifty   bordering  of  the 

river-bank,  with  its  rich  confusion  of  purple  eupatoriums  and  iron-weed, 
its  lush  green  arrow-heads  and  pickerel -weed,  and  its  tangle  of  knot- 
weeds,  tear -thumbs,  and  touch-me-nots,  overgrown  and  meshed  with 
threads  of  golden  dodder.  If  you  were  to  throw  another  stone  among 
that  outburst  you  would  be  sure  to  hear  and  smile  at  the  scores  of 
tiny  exclamations,  followed  by  the  successive  plunges,  of  those  spotted 
leopard  frogs  which  you  may  be  sure  are  hidden  among  those  dark, 
cool  shadows. 

Now,  if   you    choose,  you    can    turn    directly   along    the    sandy   road 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  5I 

which  follows  that  winding  river,  passing  beneath  the  shade  of  huge 
giant  button  woods  —  the  kaleidoscopes  among  trees  —  whose  perpetual 
shaling  bark  paints  their  trunks  with  ever-changing  motlings.  See 
the  fresh  green  blotch  from  which  only  a  moment  ago  a  curly  flake 
has  fallen.  In  a  few  days  it  will  have  become  sobered  into  a  tender 
gray,  and  the  loose  brown  piece  which  hangs  along  its  edge  will  crackle 
and  fall,  carrying  with  it  that  hidden  tuft  of  spider-eggs,  and  bringing  to 
full  view  that  white  blotch  which  even  now  shows  beneath  its  shadow. 
And  this  same  process  is  continued  more  or  less  throughout  the  year, 
from  its  huge  stem  clear  to  the  branch  tips,  and  there  is  a  new  set  of 
tints  with  almost  every  month. 

Here  your  attention  will  be  arrested  out  in  mid-stream,  perhaps,  by 
the  sound  of  low  voices  or  rattle  of  an  oar  among  some  party  of  an 
glers  anchored  in  the  stream.  You  can  see  the  bobber  dance  upon  the 
ripples,  and  if  you  look  very  sharply  you  can  almost  detect  that  tiny 
dragon-fly,  the  little  blue-bodied  sunbeam,  which  is  certainly  fluttering 
about  on  its  filmy  rainbow  wings  above  the  water,  now  settling  lightly 
upon  the  rowlock,  or  even  poising  to  thread  that  pendent  fish-line  with 
its  bright  metallic  needle.  You  can  hear  the  flip,  flap  of  the  running 
waves  beneath  those  flat  bows ;  and  now  there  is  a  rising  tumult  in  the 
water,  a  sun-flash,  a  spattering,  and  a  wriggling,  and  now  a  flopping  on 
the  bottom  of  the  boat.  You  had  forgotten  your  carriage ;  your  whip 
becomes  a  fish-pole  on  the  instant ;  it  is  raised  with  a  snap — and  away 
starts  your  pony  through  the  low -hanging  willows  that  sweep  across 
your  face.  Suddenly  they  let  you  out  again  upon  a  stretch  of  deep 
white  sand,  where  nimble  tiger- beetles  rise  and  glisten  in  their  short 
flights  before  you,  and  your  very  ears  seem  to  vibrate  with  the  dizzy, 
busy  buzz  of  cricket  life  among  the  road-side  weeds  and  sedges.  We 
will  not  forget  that  green-eyed  horse-fly,  nor  the  swarm  of  huge  mos 
quitoes,  with  their  striped  stockings  and  their  tremendous  thirst,  nor  that 
friendly  counsel  from  over  a  road-side  fence,  as  we  hesitated  at  the  ford : 

"  Ye  want  to  start  in  jest  whar  ye  see  thet  ar'  stun  stickin'  aout  o' 
water,  'n'  then  folly  the  ripple  right  araound.  Keep  clus  into  it,  'n'  ye 
can't  go  wrong;  'n'  ef  I  wuz  yeu  I  sh'd  jes'  be  gittin'  right  along,  fer 
I'm  cal'latin'  we're  a-goin'  to  get  a  leetle  tech  o'  rain  aout  o'  thet  ar' 
claoud,  'n'  the  ripples  all  goes  in  the  rain." 

There  are  a  hundred  other  things  which  come  crowding  on  the 
thought  as  my  fancy  follows  this  familiar  road.  There  was  a  splash  in 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


a  puddle,  where  every  drop  seemed  to  give  birth  to  a  score   of  yellow 
butterflies  that  flew  up  about  us  in  a  fluttering  swarm ;    a  row  of  twit 
tering  swallows   on  a  wire  ;    a  rumbling,  top-heavy 
stage-coach,  with   six  galloping  horses,  and   cheer 
ing   crowd   up    aloft,  dodging  beneath   the    maple 
^     branches ;  or  a  friendly  chat  with  the  quaint  old 
^v     village    doctor   in    his    ancient    one-hoss    shay. 
There    was   a    luscious   quaff  of  wine    from   the 
purple  clusters  of  wild  cherries,  picked  from  the 
carriage  from  an  overhanging  bough ;  and  other 
little    pleasantries.      That  tight -drawn    spider- 
web,  for  instance,  that  cut  and  snapped  across 
your  face ;   that  clumsy,  rattle-jointed  grass 
hopper     which     bumped     against    your 
cheek,  and    landed    kicking    in    your 
lap ;  or  perhaps  a  wriggling  inch- 
worm,  who    has    hung    himself 
for    amusement,  swinging    di 
rectly    in    your    path,   awaiting 
what  would  seem    to   be    the   am 
bition  of  his  life,  an  opportunity  to 
measure  the  length  of  your  nose 
— and    which    he    actually    did. 
Yes,  they  are  all  trivial,  I  know; 


VESPER    SPARROW. 


but  then  how  large  a  place  do  such  small  trifles  hold  in  the  grand 
total  of  a  summer's  holiday !  Months  later,  mark  me  well,  you  will  spin 
that  silken  spider-web  into  many  a  thread  of  pleasant  fancy;  you  will 


ALONG    THE    ROAD.  53 

remember  alone  the  generosity  of  that  old  "  Quaker"  in  the  molasses 
that  he  left  you ;  and  that  dangling  caterpillar  will  have  lost  its  uncouth 
garb,  and  will  flit  before  you  as  a  painted  butterfly.  For  it  is,  after  all, 
the  memory  of  the  ludicrous,  of  the  plights  and  sorry  situations,  that 
brings  the  brightest  smiles  of  reverie  and  the  jolliest  laughs  of  reminis 
cence.  Of  a  missing  wheel  in  deep  mid-stream  at  the  ford,  perhaps, 
with  a  precious  wagonful  of  screaming  womanhood  confided  to  your 
care;  of  a  huge  black  snake  at  the  picnic's  festive  spread;  of  a  jolly 
boat-load  stuck  upon  the  muddy  bottom  among  the  lily-pads  ;  you  will 
remember  your  outstretched  oar,  and  your  heroic  push  at  the  tiller,  and 
the  sudden  choice  thus  forced  upon  you  between  your  foothold  and  the 
oar,  and  its  resultant  splash  of  enforced  impartiality.  Or  there  was  a 
seat  at  the  edge  of  the  boat  which  you  might  remember — if  you  could ; 
but  somehow  it  wasn't  there  when  that  sudden  lurch  caused  you  to  seek 
it,  and  that  half-drowned  struggle  among  those  lines  and  fish-poles,  and 
that  murderous  bass-hook  in  your  thigh,  were  scarcely  funny  then ;  but 
how  has  it  been  since  ?  You  have  had  more  positive  enjoyment  from 
that  "  catch,"  I'll  warrant,  than  from  any  five-pound  bass  that  ever  had 
your  place. 

But  even  the  loveliest  road  in  New  England  would  ere  long,  I  fear, 
find  its  limit  in  our  capacity  of  enjoyment.  The  eye  is  often  surfeited 
and  the  mind  confused  at  the  endless  pageantry,  and  unless  the  shadows 
of  the  twilight  come  to  our  rescue  there  is  danger  that  it  may  at  length 
prove  a  tedious  journey.  Then  let  the  restful  quiet  of  the  gathering 
darkness  fall  upon  our  roadway  as  we  have  so  often  seen  it,  when  the 
dusky  gloom  veiled  the  landscape  in  obscurity,  and  our  path  ahead  was 
lost  in  a  glamour  of  vague,  impenetrable  mystery. 

The  air  is  still.  The  sheltered  spots  among  the  lowlands  and  the 
alders  are  white  and  ghostly  with  their  gathering  fog.  Even  in  the 
dimness  we  can  see  it  floating  and  creeping  among  the  willows,  where 
the  gurgling  water  gives  it  birth,  and  launches  it  among  the  bogs  and 
sedges.  How  still  and  motionless  the  leaves !  Not  even  a  good-night 
whisper  from  the  aspen-trees.  The  gnats  are  dancing  in  the  quiet  air. 
We  cannot  see  them,  but  we  hear  their  singing  wings.  The  rising  mist 
has  stolen  close  about  us  :  we  feel  its  chill,  and  it  has  become  redolent 
with  the  damp  odors  of  the  brooks  and  marshes,  while  now  and  then 
there  steals  upon  the  senses  that  delicate  dew-born  perfume,  the  faint 


1     il  I  Kill     .         I    T  ••!:.'.    I  I  i!         illK  'i  iilS.illlS  ,  'i 


THE   TWILIGHT    VOICE. 


pure  breath  from  some  awaken 
ing   primrose,  lighting    its    pale 
yellow  lamp  amid  the  gloaming.     The  na 
iads  of  the  pond,  enshrouded  in  their  veil  of 
mist,  have  long  since  gone  to  rest ;  and  could 

our  eyes  but  penetrate  the  dim  shadows  around  us,  we  might  discover 
the  drowsy  clover- leaves  losing  themselves  in  sleep,  with  folded  palms 
and  heads  bowed  down  beneath  the  benediction  of  the  dew.  You  may 
hear,  perhaps,  amid  the  silence,  the  plaintive  wail  of  the  whip-poor-will 


ALONG    THE    ROAD. 


55 


far  away,  the  evening  carol  of  the  vesper  sparrow  among  the  alders,  or 
a  slight  rustling  among  the  leaves  o'erhead,  but  it  is  not  the  breeze 
that  rustles.  It  is  some  soft-winged  owl  that  has  left  his  perch  for 
his  mission  of  dark  deeds,  or  some  night-flying  moth,  perhaps,  seeking 
his  mate  among  the  shadows.  And  how  full  of  strangeness  is  this 
mysterious  commotion,  coming  nearer  and  nearer  to  you  in  the  dark 
ness,  how  weird  and  inexplicable,  until  you  hear  the  boyish  whistle,  the 
clatter  of  the  loosened  bars,  and  now  the  clear  calling  voice  ringing  in 
the  still  night  air  ! 

And  hark  !  how  soon  there  comes  an  answering  tinkle  from  the 
gloom.  Now  a  harsh,  grating  note  of  the  first  katydid  sounds  high 
above  in  the  maple -tree.  Another  and  another  seem  waiting  to  take 
up  the  challenge,  and  the  air  soon  vibrates  with  the  never-ending  dis 
cord  of  their  noisy  multitudes.  Moment  by  moment  the  roadside  has 
wrapped  itself  in  obscurity,  and  now  there  is  nothing  left  but  the  black 
curtain  of  the  night  thrown  over  all.  Nothing  visible.  Ah  yes,  the 
tiny  lanterns  of  the  sporting  fire-flies  that  have  come  to  seek  us  in  the 
darkness — but  we  are  gone. 


THE  SQUIRREL'S  HIGHWAY. 


r 


"  Though  absent  long, 

These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  ; 
But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them, 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart, 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration. 

***** 

Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her :    'tis  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy  ;    for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith — that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings." 


"  Little  Prig  !"  canst  tell  me 
How  to  find  the  sweets  like  thee  ? 


~^ 


venturous    gossa- 


mer  thrown  floating  on  the 
breeze  is  not  more  precious  to  its 
parent  spinner,  nor   is    the    pastoral 

brook  dearer  to  its  friend  the  kingfisher,  than  is  the  rural  fence  to  our 
nimble  rover  the  red  squirrel.  He  is  its  constant  companion,  its  chosen 
messenger,  and  is  as  much  a  part  of  its  life  history  as  are  the  twining 
vines  and  tendrils  that  cluster  and  sway  about  its  mossy  stones  or  timbers. 
He  is  the  protege  of  the  hollow  rail,  the  welcome  guest  of  many  a 
chink  and  cranny  among  the  tumbling  walls.  Well  do  the  lichens  and 


C2  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

mosses  among  those  crevices  know  the  soft  caress  of  his  palpitating  fur ! 
and  to  those  of  us  who  have  so  often  watched  his  agile  zigzag  course 
along  the  roadside,  has  it  not  sometimes  seemed  as  if  in  his  absence 
those  old  gray  rails  must  miss  the  clinging  patter  of  his  feet  ? 

Not  but  that  there  are  other  frequent  touches  of  companionship 
known  to  these  gray  timbers — the  feathery  contact  of  bluebird,  or  the 
fluttering  tremor  of  the  bobolink  in  his  love  rhapsody  upon  the  jutting 
rail.  There  is  the  vibrant  tap  of  woodpecker  on  the  bar  post,  or  the 
unwelcome  grip  of  pigeon-hawk  awaiting  his  prey  upon  this  well-known 
thoroughfare. 

But  these  are  mostly  chance  loiterings  and  transitory  episodes,  and 
while  such  casual  visitors  know  the  fence  chiefly  as  a  passing  resting- 
place,  or  coigne  of  vantage,  the  squirrel  has  learned  it  in  its  length  and 
breadth.  He  has  traversed  its  every  nook  and  corner,  and  so  surely  as 
the  chattering  screech  of  the  halcyon  shall  lead  you  on  to  the  rarest  of 
the  brook's  wild  retreats,  so  truly  will  the  beckonings  of  that  frisking 
tail  signal  the  way  to  their  parallels  amid  the  rural  landscape. 

Where  is  the  picturesque  old  manse,  the  ancient  orchard,  rumbling 
mill,  or  heron-haunted  marsh  that  is  not  strung  upon  the  line  of  some 
old  rambling  fence  or  wall  ?  Their  net-work  encloses  the  entire  land 
scape  in  its  meshes  like  seams  in  the  great  coverlet  of  farms,  woods,  and 
meadows — a  patchwork  in  which  the  criss-cross  stitches  of  the  zigzag 
rails  do  time-honored  duty. 

I  am  told  by  foreign  tourists  that  while  many  of  our  fences  are 
reflected  in  those  of  other  lands,  the  counterpart  of  the  zigzag  fence  is 
to  be  seen  in  no  other  country.  It  is  typical  of  Yankeeland. 

It  is  known  as  the  snake  or  Virginia  fence,  and  as  the  relic  of  a 
lavish  era  of  unlimited  forestry.  History  does  not  chronicle  the  name 
of  its  inventor,  but  I  have  long  since  learned  to  cherish  a  profound 
respect  for  the  memory  of  this  unknown  individual.  It  is  hard  for  me 
to  imagine  in  the  person  of  this  primitive  rail-splitter  the  picture  of  an 
untutored  backwoodsman,  and  I  never  follow  the  course  of  one  of  these 
fences  without  feeling  a  certain  consciousness  that  its  original  builder 
must  have  seen  his  work  through  eyes  artistic  as  well  as  practical. 

The  careless  abandon  of  its  lines  —  a  repetition  of  form  in  which 
absolute  repetition  is  continually  defied  by  the  capricious  convolution  of 
the  woody  grain,  for  there  are  no  two  rails  made  in  the  same  mould — 
and  their  gray,  satiny  sheen,  their  weather-beaten  stains  of  moss  and 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  63 

lichen,  and  the  ever -changing  play  of  lights  and  shadows  from  their 
waving  weeds  and  vines,  make  the  old  rail -fence  truly  an  object  of 
beauty  in  our  landscape.  Often  have  I  lingered  in  its  angles,  and  a 
hundred  times  have  I  thought  of  the  host  of  pictures  and  reminiscences 
which  might  fill  a  book  to  the  glory  of  a  fence  corner. 


HAUNT    OF    THE    HERON. 


Moreover,  this  peculiarity  of  conformation  panders  to  a  most  worthy 
and  blessed  shiftlessness  happily  latent  in  the  bones  of  almost  every 
farmer;  for  while  the  ploughshare  creeps  close  along  the  base  of  the  old 
stone  wall,  and  the  direct  course  of  most  other  fences  offers  a  free 
gauge  for  the  mower's  scythe  or  the  reaper's  blade,  the  outward  corners 
of  the  zigzag  fence  dodge  beyond  the  reach  of  harm,  and  thus  escape. 
How  often,  too,  have  these  recesses  served  as  convenient  storage  quarters 
for  the  stones  and  stubble  of  the  field,  and  are  thus  safely  barricaded 
against  the  inroads  of  the  newly  whetted  scythe  or  cradle. 

Thus  does  the  old  rail -fence  bedeck  itself  in  an  abandon  of 
wreaths  and  garlands.  For  it  would  seem,  in  the  old-time  words  of 
Spenser,  that 

"  No  daintie  flowre  or  herbe  that  growes  on  grownd, 
No  arborett  with  painted  blossoms  drest, 
And  smelling  sweete,  but  there  it  might  be  fownd 
To  bud  out  faire,  and  throwe  her  sweete  smels  al  arownd." 

The    refuse    stone   piles    clothe   themselves  in   tangles   of  creeping  dew- 
berry,  cinque-foil,  and  ground-ivy;    and  the  round  leaves  of  the  creeping 


64  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

mallows  conspire  to  hide  their  nakedness.  Tall  brambles  rise  and  yield 
their  snowy  blossoms  to  the  rifling  bees,  or  later  hang  their  purple  fruit 
in  tempting  clusters  to  the  troop  of  boys  in  their  eager  scramble  among 
the  rails.  There  are  no  black  raspberries  so  large  and  luscious,  no 
hazel-nuts  so  full  and  brown,  and  no  filberts  so  tantalizing  beneath  their 
prickly  pods,  as  those  that  grow  up  under  the  protection  of  the  old  rail 
fence.  Here  the  rich  green  beds  of  sweet-fern  give  out  their  aromatic 
savor  to  the  wise  old  simpler,  the  eager  small  boy,  or  even  to  the  squir 
rel  in  quest  of  the  nutty  kernels  among  its  seed-bobs.  The  dull  red 
blossoms  of  the  glycine  tell  of  sweet  tubers  beneath  the  ground,  and  the 
bright  sunflowers  of  tall  artichokes  invite  the  old-time  search  among 
their  roots. 

Here  in  these  sheltered  angles  the  eddying  November  winds  hurl 
their  flying  leaves,  and  heap  the  glory  of  the  autumn  present  upon  the 
matted  mould  of  many  autumns  past.  Later,  the  whistling  gales  of 
winter  whirl  about  its  corners.  Clouds  of  drifting  snow  bedim  the  ever 
greens,  and  drive  along  the  meadow,  battling  with  the  army  of  tall,  gaunt 
mulleins  and  red-capped  sumacs,  and  at  last  are  whirled  along  these 
weather-beaten  timbers,  where  fantastic  peaked  Alps  arise,  and  overhang 
ing  glistening  cliffs  hem  in  the  rambling  rails  in  great  blue-shadowed 
crescents,  white  and  dazzling. 

Here,  too,  the  icy  air  shall  ring  with  the  shouts  of  those  same  voices 
that  are  known  so  well  to  the  rural  fence  through  every  month  and 
season,  and  in  every  clime  —  those  rollicking  testimonies  so  quaintly 
pictured  in  that  squirrel  hunt  of  nearly  three  hundred  years  ago ;  for 
squirrels  were  squirrels  then  as  now,  as  "  boyes"  were  always  boys.  In 
proof  whereof  I  find  among  the  pastoral  poems  of  William  Browne  this 
graphic  picture,  presumably  the  closing  scene  of  an  old-time  lively  chase 
along  the  fence  row : 

"  Then,  as  a  nimble  squirrel  from  the  wood, 
Ranging  the  hedges  for  his  filbert-food, 
Sits  partly  on  a  bough,  his  browne  nuts  cracking, 
And  from  the  shell  the  sweete  white  kernell  taking, 
Till  (with  their  crookes  and  bags)  a  sort  of  boyes 
(To  share  with  him)  come  with  so  great  a  noyse, 
That  he  is  forced  to  leave  a  nut  nigh  broke, 
And  for  his  life  leape  to  a  neighbour  oake ; 
Thence  to  a  beeche,  thence  to  a  row  of  ashes ; 
Whilst  through  the  quagmires,  and  red  water  plashes, 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  6c 

The  boyes  runne  dabling  through  thicke  and  thin; 
One  tears  his  hose,  another  breakes  his  shin  : 
This,  torn  and  tatter'd,  hath  with  much  adoe 
Got  by  the  briers;    and  that  hath  lost  his  shoe: 
This  drops  his  hand;   that  headlong  falls  for  haste; 
Another  cryes  behinde  for  being  last  : 
With  stickes  and  stones,  and  many  a  sounding  halloo, 
The  little  foole  with  no  small  sport  they  follow; 
Whilst  he,  from  tree  to  tree,  from  spray  to  spray, 
Gets  to  the  wood,  and  hides  him  in  his  dray." 

And  now  the  white  day  echoes  with  the  hilarity  of  those  half-muffled 
voices  from  the  depths  of  the  white  blockade,  where,  with  "  mittened 
hands  and  caps  drawn  low,"  the  village  truants  undermine  the  glittering 
pile,  within  "  a  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid  with  dazzling  crystal." 

Near  by  we  see  the  old  farm  coasting  path  upon  the  long  knoll  slope. 
Here  is  the  jouncing  "  thank  you,  marm,"  built  up  above  the  wall  with 
rails,  and  packed  with  snow.  How,  in  those  reckless  days  when  hearts 
were  light  and  life  was  new,  we  shot  across  this  flashing  crust,  and  like 
a  glancing  arrow  flew  in  mid-air  out  above  the  wall !  I  remember  how 
the  slender  phantoms  of  the  weeds  trembled  with  fear,  and  shook  the 
snow  from  their  shoulders  as  we  swept  by.  Then  there  was  the  startled 
hare  that  jumped  from  his  hiding-place  and  bounded  away  upon  the 
white  surface.  I  remember  how  he  wrote  his  name  in  the  snow  at  every 
jump,  and  I  can  plainly  see  that  little  nether  tuft  of  snow  that  still 
clings  to  his  fur  as  he  hies  away  beneath  the  shelter  of  the  drooping 
hemlocks,  his  winter  rendezvous. 

When  I  look  back  and  think  of  the  numerous  associations  that 
cluster  along  the  length  of  the  pastoral  fence,  and  realize  what  a  part 
it  has  played  in  the  life  history  of  almost  every  country  boy,  I  can  but 
wonder  that  it  has  found  so  few  to  sing  the  praises  of  its  memory. 

The  volumes  of  our  New  England  poets  are  singularly  free  from  any 
such  tribute.  Allusions  there  are,  of  course,  but  even  these  are  compara 
tively  few  and  brief.  As  a  theme,  however,  it  may  be  said  that  the  New 
England  fence  yet  awaits  its  poet  and  interpreter.  Whittier,  beloved  of 
all  New  England's  scattered  fledglings,  touches  upon  it  occasionally: 

"  You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still." 

But  here  it  is  a  gap  which,  as  the  context  shows,  serves  only  to  let  our 
poet  through  in  passing  on  his  foot-path.     It  is  covered  by  a  glance,  and 

5 


66  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

crossed  in  a  single  step.  As  such,  as' of  a  mere  chance  factor  in  the 
landscape,  we  occasionally  encounter  it,  as  in  the  "gray,  lichen-covered 
stone  wall"  of  Lowell,  or  that  "winding  wall  of  mossy  stone,  frost-flung 
and  broken,"  which  we  find  among  the  walks  of  Whittier. 

And  there  are  other  mentions  scarcely  less  brief — mere  touches,  as 
of  the  singing  bird  flying  across  from  field  to  field,  and  alighting  on 
the  casual  fence,  perhaps  by  accident  or  for  one  brief  moment  of  rest. 
Rather  could  I  have  wished  to  discover  among  our  lyric  singers  the 
counterpart  of  a  more  constant  friend,  the  early  bluebird  of  Lowell, 

"  Shifting  his  light  load  of  song 
From  post  to  post  along  the  cheerless  fence." 

We  have  all  heard  the  music  of  those 

"  Pasture  bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell." 

But  here  again  they  lend  their  music,  not  because  the  old  fence-post  let 
them  fall,  but  because  they  crossed  the  course  of  some  farm  lane  or 
byway. 

I  could  have  almost  wished,  too,  that  the  voice  of  that  old  barn-yard 

gate,  that 

"Creaked  beneath  the  merry  weight 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear," 

had  found  its  place  rather  in  some  song  of  the  rural  fence,  even  though 
it  were  missed  from  the  serene  picture  of  that  charming  twilight  pastoral 
of  Wachuset. 

Our  New  England  prose,  if  my  memory  serves  me,  is  equally  deficient 
in  appreciative  allusion  to  these  time-honored  landmarks.  They  appear 
occasionally  as  barriers  in  an  otherwise  unbroken  stroll  or  ramble,  and 
apparently  are  made  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  climb  over  or  even  to 
sit  down  upon.  I  can  recall  but  one  instance  where  the  subject  of  our 
fences  has  been  deemed  a  theme  worthy  of  an  essay.  It  was  from  the 
pen  of  one  who  has  known  from  boyhood  the  mossy  walls,  the  zigzag 
rails,  and  all  their  companion  hosts  of  vegetation.  He  knows  their 
hazels  and  their  pokeweeds,  their  thistles,  clematis,  and  woodbine,  the 
white  cymes  of  their  elders,  and  even  those  "  bulby  stalks  of  golden- 
rods."  He  has  lingered  among  those  angles  where  "  the  pink  spikes  of 
the  willow-herb  overtop  the  upper  rails,  and  the  mass  of  the  golden-rod's 


bloom    lies    like    a   drift   of 
gold    along    the    edge    of   the 
field."     What  a  thorough  Amer 
ican    ring    has*  that   "drift    of 
gold !"      It   is    the    symbol   of 
the  untold  limitless  wealth  of 
the  new  continent.     Its  like 
is  not  seen  anywhere  else     ^ 
under   the   sun.      How  it 
bursts     forth     from     the 
ground  and  pours  out  its 
riches — pale  gold,  yellow 
gold,  and   deep   gold  —  a 
hundred  per  cent, 
dividend  on  every 
square    foot,  in    al 
loys   of  nearly  forty  dis 
tinct   species — I   had  al 
most  said  specie !     How 
naturally,   too,  when     we 
discover  how   often    Nat 
ure    plants    the    mint    so 
handy  with  its  gold ! 

Fancy  what  a  proph-     vj 
ecy  our  pioneer  forefa 
thers  might  have  evolved 


BRAMBLE    CLUSTER. 


68  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

from  this  generous  outburst  of  the  sod !     Why  might  they  not  have  seen 

in  this 

Lavish  wealth  of  Solidago, 

Visions  of  the  Eldorado 

which  has  since  become  our  heritage  ?  I  wonder  if  those  bulby  stalks 
also  gave  their  hint  then  as  now  ?  Whether  they  disclosed  the  secret 
of  their  being — of  that  little  miner  working  in  the  dark,  perhaps  seeking 
for  the  very  gold  whose  rich  outcroppings  roll  out  so  royally  above  ? 

How  many  of  us,  too,  have  seen  those  "  pink  spikes  of  the  willow- 
herb,"  also  called  fire-weed,  either  clustering  along  the  fence  or  shedding 
their  crimson  glow  upon  the  roadside !  But  how  few  there  are  even  of 
those  who  know  the  plant,  and  who,  having  watched  its  glistening  seeds 
sailing  in  the  winds,  have  sought  to  pick  its  slender  capsule,  and  learn 
with  breathless  reverence  the  unfolding  miracle  of  its  hidden  floss  !  If 
perchance  I  shall  reach  my  allotted  "  threescore  and  ten,"  I  doubt  if  I 
shall  ever  have  the  heart  to  pass  a  copse  of  fire-weed  without  lingering 
to  pick  one  of  these  fascinating  seed  pods,  and,  clasping  its  stem  in  one 
hand  and  gently  pressing  its  tip  with  the  fingers  of  the  other,  behold 
this  magical  unfolding.  Not  more  wondrous  is  the  ashy  phoenix  of  the 
dandelion  than  is  this  exquisite  and  amazing  creation,  with  its  four  tiny 
looms  that  weave  in  a  second  of  time  an  evanescent  spirit  fabric,  whose 
contrast  pales  the  efforts  of  a  human  lifetime  into  insignificance  —  a 
warp  of  woven  sunshine  with  a  woof  of  ether — a  marvellous,  subtle  sheen 
that  flashes  in  the  sun  but  an  instant  and  is  gone.  It  is  always  awe- 
inspiring  and  wonderful  to  me ;  it  is  beautiful  beyond  description ;  and 
when  I  see  those  snowy  spirit  forms  take  wing  and  fly  heavenward,  it  is 
more  than  beautiful — it  is  divine. 

And  yet  it  would  seem  that  there  are  those  among  her  students  who 
are  above  the  influence  of  such  a  revelation  as  this  in  Nature.  Disciples 
of  a  rampant,  superficial  school  of  art  who,  in  seeking  to  portray  Nature 
"in  her  breadth,"  would  feel  that  they  can  put  the  straight-jacket  upon 
her,  and  readily  ignore  so  small  and  trivial  a  thing  as  this.  The  land 
scape,  to  their  half-blind  and  unsympathetic  eyes,  resolves  itself  into  a 
map,  a  relative  opposition  of  so  many  "  masses "  and  "  values "  of  form 
and  color.  In  the  mastery  of  these  lies  their  end  and  aim,  while  Nature 
in  her  "  detail "  is  worthy  only  of  the  scientist  and  "  has  no  place  in  art." 

The  thought  of  these  misguided  beings  minds  me  of  those  victorious 
words  of  him  who  scorned  to  drag  his  heart  in  bondage,  who  found  in 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  69 

Nature  the  mother  of  his  art,  and  who  embalmed  the  memory  of  a  dis 
affected  school  in  that  memorable  burst  of  satire — a  retributive  sonnet 
which  time  has  proved  a  fitting  requiem : 

"A  Poet! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school, 
Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff, 
Which  art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand ;   must  laugh 
By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule  ! 
Thy  art  be  nature  !    the  live  current  quaff, 
And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool 
In  fear  that  else,  when  critics  grave  and  cool 
Have  killed  him,  scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 
How  does  the  meadow  flower  its  bloom  unfold ! 
Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and  in  that  freedom  bold ; 
And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest-tree 
Comes  not  by  casting  in  a  formal  mould, 
But  from  its  own  divine,  vitality  !" — WORDSWORTH. 

Humility  is  the  only  attitude  that  wins  the  heart  of  Nature.  It  yields 
the  glow  that  lights  the  vision  of  the  "  inward  eye,"  than  which  all  other 
eyes  are  blind.  Audacity  and  impressionism  have  their  importance  and 
their  place  in  art,  but  they  are  not  its  pinnacle — the  one  yields  helpful 
courage  for  the  encounter,  and  the  other  is  the  useful  short-hand  system 
which  often  comes  to  the  artist's  rescue,  and  without  whose  aid  many 
of  Nature's  most  rare  and  subtle  expressions  would  elude  him  and  be 
lost.  But  its  function  is  realized  in  the  sketch  or  motive,  which  is  rarely 
a  picture,  more  often  but  a  rough  draft,  a  hieroglyph,  a  stenographic 
note,  which,  like  others  of  its  class,  is  fully  intelligible  alone  to  its  au 
thor,  and  whose  only  rational  excuse  for  being  is  in  its  latent  possibili 
ties  of  ultimate  translation  and  perfection. 

That  Nature's  landscape  does,  to  those  who  seek  therefor,  resolve 
itself  into  so-called  masses  and  values,  is  an  important  triith ;  but  equally 
and  more  deeply  true  are  the  infinity  and  spirit  of  her  breadth. 

The  "value"  of  the  broad  gray  mass  of  yonder  sloping  meadow  will 
find  its  truest  interpreter  (assuming  an  equality  of  technical  skill)  in 
him  who  knows  by  heart  its  elements  of  life  and  color,  who  has  seen 
its  "  violet  by  a  mossy  stone,"  who  has  plucked  its  grasses  from  their 
purple  maze,  and  knows  the  secret  of  those  endless  subtle  variations  of 
tender  russets,  grays,  and  greens,  and  cloudy  films  of  smoky  color  that 
spread  among  its  herbage. 


The  true  significance  and  "value" 
of  that  massive  bank  of  oaks  will  be 
most  deeply  felt  and  understood,  and 
therefore  most  truly  rendered,  by  him  who  has  learned  the  beauty  of  its 
vernal  buds  of  scarlet  velvet,  its  swinging  catkins,  and  the  contour  of 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  71 

its  perfect  leaf;  who  has  stood  beside  its  boughs,  and  seen  the  blue  ot 
sky  and  gray  of  passing  cloud  in  turn  reflected  from  the  polished  foliage. 

The  impress  of  that  knowledge,  and  the  sympathy  and  companion 
ship  it  implies,  will  send  its  impulse  quivering  to  his  brush  tip  in  a 
spontaneous  enthusiasm  that  shall  subdue  the  pigment  to  a  medium  for 
thought,  and  shall  hold  it  in  its  place  as  the  means  rather  than  the  end. 
And  while  the  misguided  apostle  of  the  new  school,  who  would  show  us 
"  Nature  in  her  breadth,"  shall  revel  in  his  values  of  turpentine  and  paint 
and  brush  marks,  the  transcript  of  his  more  humble  brother- worker, 
while  not  less  broad,  shall  palpitate  with  life  and  feeling,  and  through 
some  secret,  intangible  testimony  of  its  own  shall  conjure  up  in  the 
beholder  the  heart-memories  of  Nature,  and  shall  breathe  her  spirit  from 
the  canvas. 

What  is  the  aspen  without  its  fluttering  leaf  ?  What  is  the  morning 
meadow  without  its  beads  of  dew  ?  Only  a  few  weeks  since  I  met  a 
worthy  gentleman  who  had  "  studied  nature  "  twenty  years,  and  who  had 
never  seen  a  dew-spangled  gossamer  in  the  grass.  "  Well,  yes,"  he  would 
say,  "  I  suppose  I  must  have  seen  them,  but  I  don't  remember  exactly." 
There  are  many  who  go  to  nature  in  the  same  spirit,  who  look  without 
seeing,  and  perchance  if  they  do  see,  see  without  a  conscious  retina. 

Not  that  I  would  have  every  picture  a  foreground  detailed  to  the 
distance,  nor  every  eye  a  microscope.  Neither,  in  the  language  of  Rus- 
kin,  would  I  desire  mere  "  finishing  for  the  sake  of  finish "  all  over  the 
canvas.  "  The  ground  is  not  to  be  all  over  daisies,  nor  is  every  daisy 
to  have  'its  star -shaped  shadow'"  —  painted  so  exquisitely  in  those 
feeling  lines  of  Wordsworth: 

"  So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive  : — 
Would  that  the  little  flowers  were  born  to  live 
Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give; 
That  to  this  mountain-daisy's  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow,  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone." 

Apropos,  again  among  the  pages  of  "  Modern  Painters "  we  find 
this  rare  token  of  a  "cultivated  and  observant  eye"  and  of  a  devout 
heart : 

"The  grass-blades  of  a  meadow  a  mile  off  are  so  far  discernible  that  there  will  be 
a  marked  difference  between  its  appearance  and  that  of  a  piece  of  wood  painted  green. 
And  thus  Nature  is  never  distinct  and  never  vacant.  She  is  always  mysterious,  but 


72  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

always  abundant ;  you  always  see  something,  but  you  never  see  all.  And  thus  arise  that 
exquisite  finish  and  fulness  which  God  has  appointed  to  be  the  perpetual  source  of  fresh 
pleasure  to  the  cultivated  and  observant  eye — a  finish  which  no  distance  can  render 
invisible  and  no  nearness  comprehensible  :  which  in  every  stone,  every  bough,  every 
cloud,  and  every  wave  is  multiplied  around  us,  forever  presented  and  forever  exhaustless. 
And  hence  in  art  every  space  or  touch  in  which  we  can  see  everything,  or  in  which  we 
can  see  nothing,  is  false.  Nothing  can  be  true  which  is  either  complete  or  vacant :  every 
touch  is  false  which  does  not  suggest  more  than  it  represents,  and  every  space  is  false 
which  represents  nothing." 

"There  is  as  much  finish  in  the  right  concealment  of  things  as  in  the  right  exhi 
bition  of  them." 

Here  is  a  key  to  the  very  heart  of  nature,  if  one  will  only  use  it. 
And  I  would  but  add  my  faint  echo  in  an  entreaty  for  a  deeper  sense 
of  the  infinity  of  nature's  living  tone  and  palpitating  color — a  plea  for 
the  more  intelligent  recognition  of  the  elements  that  yield  the  tint 
which  we  vainly  strive  to  imitate  upon  the  canvas.  Such  knowledge  will 
give  a  voice  to  every  pigment  on  the  palette,  and  to  the  brush  an  an 
swering  consciousness ;  for,  whether  disciple  of  a  school  or  not,  whether 
artist,  poet,  or  layman,  who  can  deny  that  such  an  attitude  toward 
nature  shall  yield  a  harvest  of  deeper  knowledge  and  increased  delight, 
not  merely  in  the  contemplation  of  the  footprint,  but  even  as  truly  in 
the  study  of  the  limitless  panorama  ? 

Is  there  not  to  me  an  added  charm  in  the  pink  flush  that  mantles 
the  side  of  yonder  mountain-spur  when  I  know  so  well  that  it  is  shed 
by  the  myriads  of  blossoms  in  an  acre  of  glowing  fire-weed  ?  And  as 
my  eye  follows  the  cool  cloud-shadow  as  it  glides  down  upon  the  moun 
tain-slope,  among  the  varied  patchwork  of  its  fields  and  farms,  is  there 
not  a  deepened  significance  imparted  to  every  separate  tint  that  tells 
me  something  of  its  being  ? 

If  in  the  faint  yellow  checkered  forms  I  see  fields  of  billowing  wheat 
and  barley,  and  recall  a  hundred  of  their  associations,  or  if  from  that 
quaintly-dotted  patch  there  comes  a  whiff  from  a  sweet-scented  field, 
with  its  cocks  of  new-mown  hay,  its  skimming  swallows  and  ringing 
scythes,  with  here  a  luminous  gray  of  sandy  meadow  fresh  from  the 
plough  or  harrow,  and  there  a  weed-grown  copse  lit  up  with  golden-rod ; 
if  that  kaleidoscopic  medley  of  grays  and  olives  and  browns  tells  me  of 
its  pastures,  with  their  tinkling  bells,  of  its  fragrant  beds  of  everlasting, 
ferns,  and  hardhack,  its  trailing  junipers  and  its  moss-flecked  bowlders, 
and  each  of  these  in  turn  draws  me  still  closer,  and  whispers  something 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY. 


73 


of  itself — the  everlasting  with  its  pendent  jewel,  the  orchis  with  its  little 
confidant  and  nursling,  the  gentian  with  its  close -kept  secret  and  its 
never-opened  eye ;  if  yonder  bluish  bloom  means  a  field  of  blueberries 
to  me,  and  that  snowy  sweep  brings  visions  of  the  blossoming  buck 
wheat  field,  with  its  symphony  of  humming  bees — tell  me,  have  I  not 
only  seen  the  mountain-slope,  but  have  I  not  also  heard  its  voice  ? 


SIDE-HILL    PASTURE. 


If  there  is  any  one  of  our  fences  which  more  than  another  seems 
a  part  of  Nature  herself,  it  is  the  picturesque  old  stone  wall.  It  is  of 
all  our  fences  the  most  primitive  in  construction  and  the  least  con 
taminated  by  art. 

Built  of  Nature's  unwrought  materials,  she  has  set  her  seal  upon  it 
and  marked  it  for  her  own.  Where  the  artificial  edges  of  the  blast  or 
hammer  show  themselves,  how  quickly  are  the  angles  subdued,  how 
surely  are  they  hidden  beneath  the  covering  moss  and  lichens  !  Should 
the  prim  contour  offend  the  sense  of  Nature's  harmony,  the  frost  king 
proves  her  potent  ally,  and  soon  does  his  work  of  subjugation,  until  at 
length  the  wall  appears  as  much  a  product  of  the  earth  itself  as  do  the 
bushes  and  the  brambles,  the  burdocks,  thistles,  and  milk -weeds  that 
grow  beside  it,  and  the  clambering  vines  that  cling  about  it. 

I  know  a  ruined  wall  whose  history  dates  back  well-nigh  a  century, 
now  a  scattered,  rambling  pile  of  weather-beaten,  nature-saturated  bowl 
ders.  Half  hidden  beneath  its  covering  leaves  and  creeping  plants,  it 
seems  almost  like  a  grave,  and  in  many  places  it  is  lost  beneath  a  cov- 


74  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

ered  mound,  where  Nature  has  at  last  entirely  reclaimed  it  and  wrapped 
it  in  her  bosom. 

This  ancient  landmark  follows  the  border  of  a  lane  of  equal  antiq 
uity,  formerly  the  primitive  forest  path  of  the  pioneer  who  redeemed  its 
neighboring  sunny  meadows  from  the  wilderness,  and  whose  hands  laid 
the  wall  that,  like  himself,  has  now  returned  to  earth. 

The  remnants  of  his  old  log  hut,  it  is  said,  are  even  now  to  be  traced 
among  the  new-grown  timber  on  the  mountain-side,  surrounded  by  the 
crumbled  pile  of  the  massive  log  fence  built  about  his  primitive  habita 
tion  as  a  barricade  of  defence  against  prowling  wolves  and  bears — and 
even  Indians  too,  if  the  record  of  the  sod  is  to  be  believed ;  for  many 
are  the  tomahawks  and  flint  arrow-heads  that  have  been  turned  up  by 
the  plough  among  these  meadows. 

This  wall  has  long  since  gone  out  of  service,  but  its  innumerable 
foster-children  have  risen  up  to  do  duty  in  its  stead ;  for  here  are  almost 
impassable  thickets  of  hazel  bushes,  dwarf  cherry  and  filbert  jungles, 
with  here  and  there  at  near  intervals  majestic  shagbark  hickories  spring 
ing  up  directly  from  its  heart  of  stone.  The  sloping  roots  have  raised 
and  rolled  away  the  bowlders  on  every  side.  There  are  occasional 
colonies  of  pig-nut  trees,  and  now  and  then  a  huge  spreading  butter 
nut,  and  the  finest  specimens  of  wild  cherry  to  be  found  for  miles 
around — all  scattered  along  the  length  of  this  ancient  wall  in  an  exqui 
site  abandon. 

The  sharp  whistle  of  the  chipmunk  greets  you  here  at  almost  every 
step,  and  in  such  a  spot  there  is  more  than  ordinary  significance  in  that 
shrill  voice.  It  is  a  voice  from  the  heart  of  the  wall,  for  the  chipmunk 
is  its  companion  and  its  historian.  I  am  aware  that  Nature  has  given 
this  little  fellow  several  black  marks.  He  is  doubtless  a  little  thief, 
often  making  havoc  among  the  farmer's  stores,  and  taking  his  regular 
three  meals  a  day  from  the  granary.  As  a  type  of  greed  his  name  is 
almost  proverbial.  His  vast  subterranean  storehouses  bear  witness  to 
his  acquisitive  and  miserly  proclivities,  often  in  a  single  season  being 
packed  with  provender  representing  ten  times  his  actual  need. 

How  often  have  I  seen  this  little  fellow  on  the  homeward  jump,  his 
head  puffed  out  with  a  pignut  in  each  cheek  and  a  third  between  his 
teeth  !  But  the  inference  thus  conveyed  is  as  undeserving  as  the  black 
marks  which  he  carries.  If  his  gluttony  is  proverbial,  it  is  equally  prov 
idential.  He  is  by  no  means  a  gourmand  by  profession,  for  his  true 


THE     SQUIRREL'S     HIGHWAY.  75 

vocation — the  one  with  which  he  is  accredited  in  the  book  of  Nature- 
is  that  of  a  most  skilful  planter  and  landscape  gardener.  We  have  him 
to  thank  for  many  of  our  most  highly  prized  specimens  of  standard 
trees.  It  is  from  the  providential  plethora  of  his  subterranean  treasure- 
houses  that  have  sprung  these  noble  oaks  and  hickories,  these  massive 
chestnuts,  and  this  outburst  of  hazel  and  wild  cherry  among  this  bed 
of  stone. 

There  are  other  tenants  that  people  its  crevices.  The  lithe  weasel 
has  his  beaten  tracks  among  them,  where  he  threads  his  way  in  search 
of  hiding  field-mice  that  make  their  nests  beneath  the  stones.  The 
chipmunk  sometimes  encounters  him  in  the  hall -way  of  his  burrow, 
where  this  dreaded  enemy  has  lain  in  wait  for  him,  and  the  partridge 
is  surprised  by  that  same  stealthy  approach  while  browsing  on  the  buds 
among  the  hazels. 

There  is  hardly  a  square  foot  in  this  old  barricade  that  I  have  not 
learned  by  heart,  from  its  beginning  at  the  old  balanced  gate,  with  its 
long  jutting  beam  and  stone,  that  makes  its  creaking  sweep  out  above 
the  barn-yard,  to  its  other  terminus  at  the  end  of  the  lane  half  a  mile 
away,  where  the  scattered  stones  thin  out  upon  a  broad  bare  rock  some 
hundred  feet  in  width.  This  particular  rock  is  known  the  country 
round  as  "  Lawsuit  Rock,"  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale.  We  have  heard 
of  a  certain  rock  in  the  bed  of  Concord  River  on  which  four  townships 
bound,  and  I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  a  veteran  oak  in  New  England 
which  drops  its  acorns  in  three  different  States,  whose  boundaries  meet 
at  the  centre  of  its  trunk.  But  not  in  the  history  of  these  more  im 
portant  and  historical  landmarks  is  there  to  be  found  such  a  record  of 
feud  and  strife  as  that  which  had  its  scene  of  action  on  this  old  flat 
rock,  and  that,  too,  simply  because  it  had  the  misfortune  to  figure  in  a 
deed  of  property  as  "ye  gray  rock  near  ye  boundary  fence  of  Ziby  Free 
man,  his  pitch." 

But  Ziby  Freeman  is  long  since  in  his  grave.  His  hands  were  not 
mixed  up  in  this  early  strife,  but  tradition  says  he  looked  on  in  safety 
from  his  neutral  ground  and  enjoyed  the  fun  between  the  two  lively 
factions  whose  possessions  bordered  his  own,  and  were  nominally  sep 
arated  by  this  now  ruined  wall,  which  was  supposed  to  extend  from  this 
"gray  rock" — ay,  there's  the  rub — "due  east  in  a  straight  line  to  ye 
mile-stone  on  ye  Trumbull  turnpike." 

But  Caleb   Prindle,  a  contemporaneous  townsman,  and  chief  fence- 


76  HIGHWAYS    AND    BY IV A  YS. 

viewer  of  the  town  through  many  years,  happily  still  lives,  and,  though 
past  his  eightieth  birthday,  bids  fair,  with  the  promise  of  his  erect  figure 
and  ruddy  bloom  of  countenance,  to  become  a  centenarian.  He  is  a 
materialized  sunbeam,  and  so  warm  is  his  genial  heart  that  it  seems  to 
have  thawed  every  vestige  of  the  winter  of  his  life,  excepting  perhaps 
the  snow  of  his  soft  white  hair,  which  falls  in  a  silken  avalanche  upon 
his  shoulders.  There  are  two  smaller  tufts  of  snow  thatching  his  brows, 
but  Uncle  Caleb  heeds  them  not,  and  he  looks  out  brightly  and  happily 
through  their  foreshadowing.  His  mind  is  like  a  crystal,  and  even  his 
boyhood  does  not  as  yet  seem  so  far  away  to  him  but  that  he  can 
recount  its  occurrences  with  a  minuteness  of  incident  often  convulsing 
to  himself  as  well  as  uproariously  contagious  to  his  ever-ready  hearers. 


A    CLEARING. 


It  is  a  treat  indeed  to  interview  old  Uncle  Caleb,  and  draw  him  out 
on  the  reminiscences  of  this  flat  rock.  It  is  like  a  long  chapter  in  some 
Colonial  novel — with  a  large  preponderance  of  comedy,  it  is  true,  but 
not  a  little  of  the  deep  pathos  of  genuine  romance  —  to  hear  him  tell 
of  the  tribulations  and  the  complications  of  which  this  old  rock  was  the 
innocent  cause. 

"  Ye  see  it  cum  abaout  in  this  way,"  he  usually  begins,  as  he  throws 
his  head  to  one  side,  and  enforces  his  remarks  by  beating  time  with 
his  outstretched  finger — "  ye  see  it  all  cum  by  thet  ar  feller  a-puttin' 
in  thet  old  gray  rock  into  the  deed  so  car'less  like,  'n'  makin'  so  much 
a  p'int  on't.  Naow,  old  Roderick  Emmons  alluz  sed  ez  haow  the  deed 
wa'n't  wuth  the  paper  it  wuz  writ  on,  cuz  they  wa'n't  a  *  foresaid,' 
ner  a  fus'  part,  er  a  secon'  part,  'n'  sech,  into  it  from  the  beginnin' 
teu  the  end  on't.  But  I'll  tell  ye  haow  it  wuz.  Ye  see,  in  them  times 
thet  ar  rock  vender  wa'n't  no  bigger'n  a  bar'l  head — thet  is,  wut  you 
cud  see  on't  —  'n'  it  wa'n't  no  gret  nuther,  only  jest  stuck  aout  the 
graound  a  lettle,  kinder  flat  'n'  low  daown  like,  ye  know.  But  ye  see" 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  77 

— here  the  face  lights  up,  the  eyes  begin  to  twinkle,  and  the  wrinkled 
lips  must  needs  be  wiped  with  the  red  bandanna  handkerchief  ere  he 
takes  up  the  thread — "  ye  see,  when  thet  ar  feller  on  the  up  side — thet 
wuz  Acel  Benson  (he  wuz  the  gret-gran'ther  of  Elijy  Benson,  daown  the 
road  a  spell;  ye  kin  see  his  haouse  thar  threu  the  trees  daown  in  the 
holler) — but  ye  see,  w'en  he  cum  to  plough  up  thar  on  his  side — they 
wa'n't  no  fence  thar  then  —  he  kep'  a-runnin'  agraoun'  on  this  pesky 
stun  bottom,  'n'  w'en  he  cum  to  clear  up  the  gravel  a  piece,  he  see  haow 
the  old  '  bar'l  hed '  wuz  consid'able  of  a  spreader  all  araoun'.  Now,  w'en 
he  cum  to  look  on't  a  minnit,  'n'  kinder  cogitatin'  like,  it  somehow  cum 
into  his  hed,  ye  know,  ez  haow  the  hull  on't  was  a  'gray  rock.'  'N'  he 
jest  went  straight  to  hum,  'n'  took  a  car'ful  readin'  o'  the  deed — kinder 
sorter  prarfle  like,  ye  know." 

Would  that  the  reader  might  catch  the  accompanying  glimpse  of 
simulated  piety  with  which  Uncle  Caleb  here  favors  us,  and  that  final 
smile  ere  he  resumes  ! 

"  Naow,  he  wuz  consid'able  1'arned,  'n'  wuz  a  gret  meetin'  man,  'n' 
he  wuz  a  consid'able  bizniss  man  teu — b'leeved  in  keepin'  clus  to  the 
letter  on't.  So  he  wa'n't  long  in  decidin',  /  kin  tell  ye,  'n'  he  wuz  aout 
thar  agin  with  his  team  in  jest  abaout  a  shake  uv  a  lamb's  tail.  'N'  he 
went  to  work  'n'  scooped  aout  the  turf  abaout  seventy-five  feet  along 
Ziby  Freeman's  fence  until  he  struck  the  edge  o'  the  rock,  'n'  then 
wut  did  the  feller  do  but  put  up  his  stake  thar,  'n'  run  his  fence  line 
'  due  east  to  the  turnpike,'  jest  ezacly  ez  wuz  called  fer  in  the  writin' 
o'  the  deed." 

Uncle  Caleb's  narrative  is  always  broken  here,  and  it  does  one  good 
to  see  his  keen  enjoyment  as  he  rubs  his  knees  and,  with  head  thrown 
back,  gives  vent  to  his  loud  "  Haw !  haw !  haw !  Wut  times  them  fellers 
hed !  I  never  see  sech  goin's  on." 

"  Naow  wait  a  minnit,"  he  expostulated,  eagerly,  as  I  was  about  to 
ask  a  question  ;  "  jes  lemme  go  on  tell  I  git  through.  Ye  see,  thet  tuk 
in  consid'able  of  a  piece  o'  graoun',  'n'  he  hed  the  law  onto  his  side  teu. 
Then,  I  tell  ye,  cum  the  fun.  Old  Acel,  ye  know,  he  gut  fired  with  a 
sorter  high  'n'  holy  zeal,  'n'  wuz  'tarnal  anxyis  all  on  a  sudden  to  git 
up  thet  ar  line  fence,  'n'  they  wuz  a  sight  o'  small  stun  araoun'  thar 
a-waitin'.  So  he  went  aout,  'n'  gut  all  his  nabers  to  come  araoun'  'n' 
gin  'im  a  lift,  'n'  he  hed  a  reg'lar  fence  bee.  Lor' !"  ejaculated  he,  under 
his  breath,  shaking  the  while  from  top  to  toe  with  suppressed  laughter, 


7  8  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

"they  didn't  know  wut  he  wuz  up  to,  ye  know.  They  wa'n't  a-thinkin' 
so  much  of  stun  walls  abaout  thet  time  ez  they  wuz  abaout  thet  ar 
gingerbread  'n'  pie  'n'  cider  'n'  sech  a-cummin' ;  but,  I  tell  ye,  they  kep' 
at  it  clus  until  the  old  wall,  sech  ez  it  wuz,  wuz  built  whar  Acel  said." 

At  this  point  of  his  story  we  always  know  just  what  to  expect.  The 
ruddy  color  has  gradually  stolen  to  Uncle  Caleb's  ears,  and  now  his 
bald  head  shows  its  glow.  His  eyes  have  become  nervous  and  restless 
in  their  added  twinkle  beneath  their  shaggy  brows.  And  now  he  begins 
to  shake  all  over ;  every  laughing  wrinkle  in  his  old  face  is  brought 
into  play ;  his  tongue  rolls  between  his  wrrinkled  lips ;  and  the  old  red 
handkerchief  must  soon  come  into  requisition  in  mopping  the  tears  that 
trickle  down  among  the  furrows  of  his  cheeks,  as  he  tells  in  broken 
sentences  of  "  the  fun  them  fellers  hed,"  and  u  haow  them  stun  did  fly." 

"  Ye  see,  this  other  feller — thet  is,  the  feller  on  the  daown  side,  Giles 
Farchild,  ye  know — he  lived  consid'able  of  a  piece  off  on  the  'pike 
yender,  'n'  putty  soon  he  gut  wind  on't,  'n'  he  gut  lookin'  et  the  deed 
ten,  'n'  nateral  enuff  his  readin'  on't  wuz  kinder  different  from  A  eel's 
readiri .  So  he  thort  ez  haow  it  wuz  abaout  time  to  clear  up  his  Ian'  a 
leetle,  ye  know,  'n'  git  rid  o'  them  stun.  Then,  I  tell  ye,  come  the  fun. 
I  don't  b'lieve  they  ever  wuz  a  wall  ez  hed  sech  a  lively  time  in  buildin* 
ez  this  un.  Fi'tin' ! — Leuther !  I  never  heerd  on  sech  fi'tin'.  Lor' ! 
haow  the  hull  lot  on  'em  did  turn  aout !  It  looked  et  one  time  mighty 
like  ez  if  the  hull  taown  wuz  takin'  a  han',  'n'  Giles  Farchild  with  his 
folks,  'n'  Acel  Benson  with  his'n,  one  a-heavin'  on  the  stun,  'n'  t'other 
a-rippin'  of  'em  up,  'n'  shyin'  'em  araoun'  like  all  possessed.  I  never  see 
sech  goin's  on.  Leuther !  how  them  stun  did  fly  !  Haw  !  haw  !  haw ! 
I  tell  ye,  in  its  time,  thet  old  wall  thar  hez  travelled  pooty  much  all  over 
the  meddy,  'n'  they's  no  tellin'  but  wut  them  ar  stun  might  'a  been 
a-shyin'  naow,  ef  it  wa'n't  for  Jotham  Nichols  a-steppin'  up  'n'  buyin'  on 
'em  aout,  'n'  j'inin'  on  'em.  But,  Leuther!  haow  them  stun  did  fly!" 

Then  followed  another  long,  convulsive  scene  of  merriment,  which 
gradually  seemed  to  shake  out  all  the  laugh  that  was  left  in  our  story 
teller  for  the  time  being.  When  he  had  finally  subsided  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  while  an  expression  of  grim  consciousness  seemed  to  steal 
across  his  countenance,  as  he  resumed,  in  an  absent-minded  strain : 

"  But  old  Acel's  dead  'n'  gone  teu  his  final  reck'nin',  'n'  I  dessay  like 
'nuff  he'll  stand  ez  good  a  show  thar  ez  a  good  many  on  us  ez  is 
kinder  injyin'  on  his  worldly  capers." 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY. 


79 


"  Is    it    true,  Uncle 
Caleb,"  I   inquired,   hur 
riedly,  lest    a    penitential 
mood  should  settle  down 
upon    him  —  "is    it    true 
that   Acel    had    a    touch 
of  insanity  ?" 

"Waal,  I   dunno  — I   dunno," 
replied  he,  brightening  up.    "  They 

is  folks  wat  sez  he  wuz  kinder  crazy  on  the  subjic — kinder  graspin'  V 
averishis  like,  ye  know;  but  I  dunno.  They  ain't  no  use  talkin',  he  wuz 
dreffle  sot — dreffle  sot — 'n'  he  wuz  ez  odd  ez  Dick's  hat-band;  but  I 
ain't  so  sartin  about  the  crazy.  I'm  cal'latin'  they  wa'n't  much  of  the 


HAUNTED    HOUSE. 


80  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

crazy.  Lor'  bless  ye,  no,"  he  finally  expostulated,  as  his  memory  re 
freshed  him,  "  not  a  bit  on't — they  wa'n't  an  insane  bone  in  his  body,  any 
more'n  they  is  in  his  dreffle  likely  offspring  daown  the  road  yender. 
He's  old  Acel  right  over  agin — gut  the  same  machinery  into  'im — 
smarter'n  chain  lightnin',  'n'  ekully  law-abidin'  'n'  speritooal  —  gret 
meetin'  man." 

The  story  of  Uncle  Caleb  did  not  stop  here,  however;  indeed,  we 
had  yet  heard  but  its  beginning,  for  there  were  long  years  of  bitterness 
that  followed  from  this  scene  of  early  strife,  enmities,  and  estrangements 
that  were  handed  down  from  father  to  son,  and  to  children's  children. 
The  tattered  pages  of  the  old  town  records  still  bear  silent  witness  to 
many  of  his  recollections,  and  show  how  potent  were  the  influences  of 
this  early  feud  in  the  administration  of  titles,  legacies,  and  even  large 
inheritances. 

There  were  episodes,  also,  which,  from  the  deep  tremor  of  Uncle 
Caleb's  voice,  showed  too  plainly  how  close  they  had  come  to  the  heart 
of  our  aged  story-teller  himself,  for  there  was  no  lack  of  the  tender 
pathos  of  the  old,  old  story.  There  were  long  estrangements  and  heart 
aches,  and  even  the  legendary  lore  of  witchcraft  and  mysterious  tragedy 
had  found  their  place  in  his  romantic  narrative  ere  he  finished.  There 
were  strange  traditions  of  a  frightened  face  wrought  upon  a  window- 
pane  ;  and  so  long  as  that  church-yard  acre  lasts  I  shall  hear  the  story 
of  that  sweet  Evangeline,  seen  for  the  last  time,  lost  in  a  twilight 
reverie,  upon  a  lonely  grave. 

One  relic  of  these  Colonial  days  still  exists — it  lies  close  by  upon 
our  squirrel's  highway,  and  this  nimble  climber  knows  it  well.  It  is  the 
old  deserted  house  of  Acel  Benson — a  moss-grown  ruin,  full  of  weird 
tradition.  For  is  it  not  known  many  miles  around  as  the  "  house  with 
a  haunted  well?"  Have  I  not  heard  over  and  over  again  of  that  mys 
terious  light  that  flickers  and  dances  above  the  well-curb  ? — how,  in  the 
dead  of  night, 

"A  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes?" 

— how  it  plays  and  prances  about  that  old  house  like  a  witching  sprite 
vainly  searching  with  its  lantern  for  a  clew  that  was  never  found,  now 
emerging  above  the  chimney-top,  now  hovering  along  the  weed-grown 
eaves,  where  the  startled  bats  come  out  and  swoop  about  its  halo,  and 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  81 

at  last  how  it  flits  across  the  tangled  yard,  hovers  a  moment  above  the 
well,  and  disappears  ? 

There  are  those  among  the  aged  towns-people  who  yet  tell  of  old- 
time  midnight  vigils  at  the  Benson  fence — watching  for  the  first  glim 
mer  of  that  lambent  flame  above  the  well-curb — and  more  than  one 
white-haired  matron  I  could  mention  to  whom  this  playful  will-o'-the- 
wisp  is  but  a  ghostly  visitor  from  the  other  world. 

Old  Aunt  Huldy,  with  half-frightened  look  and  bated  breath,  which 
only  half-concealed  the  tremulous,  broken  voice,  was  prone  to  tell  of  the 
"terrible  secret  of  the  old  Benson  well,"  and  of  the  unpardoned  soul 
that  was  doomed  to  "  hant  the  arth  till  the  Angil  Gabriel  should  blow 
his  horn." 

What  is  the  secret  of  that  overwhelming  depression  that  weighs 
upon  one's  being  when  in  the  presence  of  an  old  deserted  house  ?  It 
overpowers  you.  You  may  strive  to  laugh  it  down,  but  the  echo  of  that 
laugh  is  a  weird  reproof  and  mockery ;  you  may  strive  to  reason  it  away, 
but  it  is  not  obedient  to  the  intellect;  it  is  not  the  slave  of  reason.  Ye 
who  were  wont  to  laugh  at  the  credulous  fancy  of  the  village  crone, 
come  with  me  to  that  old  house  in  the  shadows  of  the  twilight,  and 
see  how  quickly  are  the  smiles  of  ridicule  dispelled. 

I  sought  this  ruin  upon  an  autumn  evening ;  I  picked  my  way 
through  its  wilderness  of  weeds,  following  the  path  of  some  prowling 
tenant  that  had  worn  a  beaten  track  to  door  and  cellar  way.  I  saw 
the  yawning  roof;  I  saw  the  yellow  leaves  of  twenty  years  that  had 
been  whisked  in  at  the  gaping  sashes,  and  had  been  whirled  by  the 
blustering  wind  into  great  piles  in  the  damp  corners.  I  looked  out 
upon  the  high-grown  weeds  and  mildewed  lilacs  that  swayed  against  the 
window-sills.  The  drop  of  the  squirrel's  nut  rattled  on  the  rafters  over 
head,  and  every  sheltered  corner  was  festooned  with  heavy  cobwebs 
laden  with  the  dust  of  generations.  I  saw  the  chimney-place,  the  old 
brick  oven  with  its  empty  void,  and  in  the  fireplace  below  an  ashy 
ember  of  an  old  back-log  lying  upon  the  hearth  that  once  was  radiant 
in  its  glow.  Here  were  worn  hollows  in  the  floor  that  seemed  to  speak 
— imprints  of  the  old  arm-chair  that  told  whole  volumes  of  past  cosy 
comfort  at  this  fireside ;  here  a  nick  in  the  plastered  wall,  and  a  clouded 
spot  above,  which,  with  the  testimony  of  the  dents  in  the  floor  beneath, 
told  plainly  of  the  evening  pipe  and  the  figure  in  the  tilted  chair.  There 
was  a  cupboard  door  with  its  worn  spot  about  the  knob ;  here  a  rusty 

6 


82 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


nail  with  the  shadow  of  its  hang 
ing    coat    still    plainly    visible 
upon    the    wall  —  a    hundred 
things,  and  each  seemed  trying 
to  tell  its  story  in  some  mys 
terious  language  of  its  own. 

I    sought   out    the 
nooks  and  cupboards, 


and  I  remember  at  length  finding  myself 
lost  in   a  deep  day-dream   merely  at  the 
sight  of  a   mildewed  fragment  which   I 
had  kicked  up  on  the  crumbling  boards. 
It  was  nothing  but  a  musty  bit  of  leather 
— nothing  but  a  little   baby   shoe   turned 
up  from  a  pile  of  rubbish  on  the  closet  floor. 

How  eloquent  that  oppressive,  suggestive  stillness — a  sombre  silence 
which  yet  seemed  weighted  with  latent  tidings — finding  my  ear  ever  on 


THE     SQUIRREL'S     HIGHWAY.  83 

the  alert  for  some  half-expected  whisper  from  every  gloomy  corner,  and 
riveting  my  restless  eyes  as  though  seeking  for  an  answering  look  from 
every  dark  recess!  Why  clo  you  peer  so  slowly  and  cautiously  into  the 
shadows  of  the  dark  closet?  Why  do  you  so  often  turn  and  glance 
behind  as  you  pass  among  these  gloomy  passages  ?  What  is  it  that 
you  seek  ?  And,  as  you  reach  the  top  of  those  tottering  stairs,  why  that 
quick  and  sweeping  glance  ?  why  that  shudder  but  half  concealed  ?  Yes, 
it  is  damp.  The  air  is  heavy  with  the  emanations  of  mould  and  rotting 
timbers.  But  it  is  not  the  chill  that  brings  the  shudder;  it  is  not  the 
dampness.  The  soggy  floors  break  and  crumble  beneath  your  feet,  and 
you  draw  your  wraps  close  about  you  as  you  pick  your  way  through  the 
dank  and  musty  halls,  so  clammy  cold.  The  doors  have  fallen  from 
their  hinges,  and  lie  in  shapeless  heaps  among  the  rotten  timbers  of  the 
floor.  The  toppling  rafters  and  sagging  beams  are  tumbling  from  their 
moorings,  and  are  damp  with  slimy  mildew,  and  peopled  with  destroying 
worms.  Snails  and  lizards  are  crushed  beneath  your  footsteps,  and  as 
you  hurry  toward  the  door  the  coils  of  a  skulking  snake  disappear 
before  you  among  the  dark  holes  at  your  feet.  You  are  weighed  down 
with  a  sense  of  the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  this  old  house.  But 
there  is  a  still  deeper  impress.  As  you  stand  and  look  back  upon  its 
sightless  hollow  eyes  and  crumbling  frame,  there  is  something  besides 
the  sighing  of  its  pines,  something  in  its  uncanny  silence,  something  in 
its  clammy  breath,  which  speaks,  and  it  says — how7  unrelenting  came  the 
voice  ! — 

"  I  am  dead.  My  life  has  flown,  and  I  am  returning  to  the  mould 
that  gave  me  being.  Time  was  when  these  timbers  glowed  with  ruddy 
warmth,  and  thrilled  with  throbbing  pulses  of  the  living,  when  these 
silent  halls  echoed  with  the  ring  of  joyous  voices,  and  these  sightless 
windows  were  merry  with  laughing  eyes  that  looked  out  from  the  life 
within.  But  how  have  these  things  left  me  !  Behold  in  me  a  moulder 
ing  thing  !  Naught  knows  me  now  but  the  fungus  and  the  gnawing 
worm ;  the  serpent  and  the  prowling  vermin  of  the  night  traverse  my 
bones.  Whither  my  life  has  flown,  I  know  not ;  whither  its  destiny,  I 
know  not.  How  thus  do  I  behold  my  counterpart  in  thee  !  Comrade, 
I  would  greet  thee,  for  art  thou  not  my  brother  ?  That  which  thou 
dost  seem  is  but  a  shape  like  me,  thyself  only  its  brief  tenant,  and  soon 
shall  cast  it  off,  and  leave  it  even  as  I  am  left." 

The  fence   no   longer  serves    as   the    squirrel's   highway  to   this   old 


84  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

haunt.  The  mossy  boards  and  pickets  have  long  since  lent  their  essence 
to  nourish  the  growth  of  weeds  that  now  obscure  them.  The  squirrel 
of  Colonial  days  knew  them  well,  but  the  nimble  rover  of  to-day  must 
needs  reach  his  old  rookery  by  a  branch  highway  from  tree  to  tree,  from 
which  he  finds  his  path  to  the  mossy  shingles.  Presently  he  appears  at 
the  little  curved  window  in  the  gable,  crouches  a  moment,  and  launches 
himself  through  the  air,  landing  with  clinging  feet  upon  the  hickory 
bough  that  sways  beneath  him  as  he  bounds  along.  At  the  trunk  he 
pauses,  rummages  beneath  a  shag  of  bark,  and  in  a  moment  more  we 
hear  his  snicker,  and  the  loud  scraping  of  his  teeth  upon  the  hard 
white  nutshell. 

The  shell-bark  hickory  is  the  squirrel's  favorite  storehouse.  A  quick 
stroke  of  axe  or  sledge  on  one  of  these  trunks  will  often  dislodge  num 
bers  of  nuts  which  have  been  packed  away  and  wedged  beneath  the 
loose  shags  of  bark  by  these  provident  little  fellows.  I  remember  a 
pocketful  of  nuts  thus  gathered  from  a  single  tree  in  a  midwinter  ramble 
in  the  snow-crust ;  and  I  remember,  too,  the  scolding  protest  from  the 
interior,  and  the  two  black  eyes  at  the  knot-hole. 

But  the  scraping  sound  has  ceased,  the  empty  nut  has  rattled  among 
the  branches,  the  squirrel  has  left  his  perch,  and  now  we  see  him  tacking 
back  and  forth  upon  the  fence  with  flying  colors.  Here  he  makes  a 
sudden  halt,  followed  by  a  crouch  and  spring  to  the  branch  of  the  low- 
hanging  apple-tree.  This  old  crag  has  learned  to  know  his  grip,  and 
gets  its  daily  shake  of  companionship.  The  apples  of  autumn  tumble 
about  him  as  he  speeds  along,  and  in  spring  he  makes  a  whirling  tumult 
among  the  bees,  leaving  a  mimic  snow-fall  in  the  shower  of  blossoms  in 
his  track  as  he  leaps  up  on  the  corn-crib  eaves  and  pries  and  scolds 
about  that  protecting  piece  of  tin  upon  its  roof. 

How  well  he  knows  every  inch  upon  his  path !  Here  he  makes  a 
long  clean  jump  across  the  middle  of  a  certain  rail,  knowing  well  of  that 
hornets'  nest  beneath — a  nest  of  paper,  by-the-way,  made,  perhaps,  from 
the  gray  fibres  of  the  very  rail  on  which  it  hangs — a  parcel,  the  nature 
of  whose  contents  he  knows  full  well. 

Now  he  takes  a  circuit  on  a  lower  timber,  for  no  cause  save  perhaps 
the  memory  of  some  sly  slip-noose  which  came  so  near  being  his  doom 
in  its  artful  poise  above  the  rail.  Here  he  lingers  with  a  wistful  look 
at  the  empty  robin's  nest  between  the  cross-beams,  and  there  are  visions 
of  bright  blue  eggs — a  golden  quaff  from  rare  blue  cups.  The  stuffy 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  85 

little  wren  in  her  post -hole  citadel  hears  the  vibrant  murmur  of  his 
approach  along  the  boards,  and  plants  herself  at  the  opening  of  her  bur 
row,  where  she  sputters  and  scolds  with  great  ado. 

Here,  too,  is  the  woodpecker's  den  in  the  dead  tree  close  by,  to  which 
our  red  rover  paid  a  well-remembered  visit ;  but,  contrary  to  his  calcula 
tions,  madam  was  at  home,  and  met  him  at  the  door,  and  planted  a 
rebuke  between  his  eyes  that  quite  dispelled  his  appetite  for  the  time 
being.  He  will  never  work  that  mine  again.  See  how  the  mere  thought 
of  that  pickaxe  reception  speeds  him  on  as  he  skips  along  and  clears  the 
bar-posts  at  a  jump ! 

But  while  this  little  athlete  is  at  home  on  almost  every  fence,  and 
trains  a  special  gait  for  each,  there  are  some  of  them  that  have  no 
attractions  for  him.  Such,  for  example,  is  the  sawyer's  fence.  I  do  not 
remember  ever  having  seen  a  squirrel  on  one  of  these  fences.  They 
cannot  offer  him  the  continuity  of  track  as  in  other  fences,  and  as  a  foot 
path  the  sawyer's  fence  practically  comes  to  an  end  at  every  step.  The 
progress  of  a  squirrel  on  one  of  these  fences  would  indeed  be  an  amusing 
spectacle,  for  his  course  could  be  little  else  than  a  series  of  bounds  from 
the  summits  of  the  oblique  slanting  rails.  If  I  were  a  squirrel  I  think 
I  should  give  a  wide  berth  to  the  sawyer's  fence,  and  I  incline  to  the 
same  lack  of  enthusiasm  concerning  it,  even  though  I  am  not  a  squirrel, 
as  who  would  not  that  has  traversed  its  length  around  a  ten-acre  lot  in 
the  vain  hope  of  some  assailable  point  of  thoroughfare  ? 

The  sawyer's  fence  is  the  most  exasperating  member  of  the  whole 
fence  tribe,  leading  you  on  and  on  in  a  most  persuasive  sort  of  way, 
baffling  you  at  every  attempt  to  make  the  breach,  entangling  your  legs 
and  clutching  your  garments  in  a  manner  most  insinuating  and  humili 
ating  ;  and  as  you  beat  a  retreat,  to  calm  yourself  and  re-adjust  matters 
a  little,  it  stands  there  in  defiance,  to  "rail"  at  you,  as  it  were,  and  plainly 
seems  to  say,  "  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  There  is  a 
secret  spirit  of  antagonism  in  the  sawyer's  fence  which,  in  its  moments 
of  rampage,  is  past  all  subjugation.  It  is  a  most  absolute  annihilator 
of  true  dignity. 

If  this  fence  has  a  motto,  it  would  seem  that  it  should  sound  some 
thing  like  this,  "  Arripio !"  and  why  not  also,  "Arripitor!  Arripientur !" 
It  would  at  least  appear  to  live  up  faithfully  to  some  such  legend, 
whether  considered  in  its  literal  or  acoustic  sense,  as  any  one  can  testify 
who  has  made  its  intimate  acquaintance. 


86 


HI  G  H  IV A  YS    A  ND    B  Y  IV A  YS. 


Trust  not  the  sawyer's  fence.  Better  by  far  a  circuit  of  the  meadow 
with  the  peace  of  unknown  achievement  than  victory  in  such  grim 
disguise. 

But  this  eccentric  champion  is  not  without  its  good  points.  How 
hath  it  occasionally  redeemed  itself  in  ministering  to  the  exigencies  of 
life !  In  the  rescue  of  that  guileless  youth,  for  instance,  who  returning 
home  after  dark  one  summer  evening,  fresh  from  a  forbidden  swim  with 
the  village  boys,  and  who,  in  tripping  innocently  through  the  kitchen, 


LOOKING    UP-HILL. 


was  suddenly  accosted  by  his  mother,  who  would  know,  forsooth,  "  how 
that  shirt  came  to  be  wrong  side  out."  And  he,  being  a  mindful  lad, 
and  taking  in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  replied,  "Well,  ain't  that  funny! 
Why,  mother,  I  must  'a  done  that  gettin'  through  the  sawyer's  fence  up 
on  the  hill  near  grandpa's.  I  thort  I  felt  sumthin'  give ;"  and  the  fond 
mother  folded  him  in  her  arms,  and  said  he  was  a  dutiful  son,  and  that 
she  never  again  would  wrong  him  by  unkind  suspicion. 

It  is  this  same  innocent  who  knows  so  well  that  spreading  canopy 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  87 

of  wild  grape  above  the  old  stone  wall,  with  its  cosy  retreat  beneath,  and 
the  suggestive  watermelon  rinds  that  strew  the  ground. 

It  is  his  clear  voice  we  hear  in  the  evening  dusk  calling  in  pasture 
lot  and  lane.  His  is  the  pail  that  clinks  along  the  road  where  dusty 
brambles  droop  and  wait  for  him.  His  laugh  has  rung  out  high  and 
merrily  in  concord  with  that  creaking  gate,  and  often  have  we  heard 
his  shout  echoing  among  the  din  of  barking  dogs  and  clamor  of  the 
mob  about  its  captive  prisoner  in  the  wall. 

He  has  set  sly  snares  in  many  a  woody  copse,  and  he  knows  the 
eggs  of  starling,  oriole,  and  thrush.  The  brook-side  knows  him,  and  the 
golden  willow  twigs  yield  bird-like  music  at  his  lips.  He  has  seen  the 
owl's  nest  in  the  hollow  tree,  the  musk-rat's  hut  among  the  bogs,  and 
the  flashes  from  the  gravelly  river-bed  to  him  are  tell-tale  gleams  of 
silvery  dace,  of  minnow,  or  of  painted  bream.  He  knows  the  speckled 
beauties  too,  but,  alas  !  he  knows  them  only  on  another's  string.  He 
has  sought  them  with  the  fly,  the  cricket,  and  the  worm ;  he  has  waded 
for  them,  and  has  frightened  them  from  every  gurgling  nook  that  knew 
them.  He  has  searched  in  vain  for  those  inexhaustible  fishing-grounds 
of  Ethan  Booth,  the  sly  old  village  Nimrod,  who  drops  in  at  the  village 
store  evening  after  evening  with  his  long  willow  string  laden  with  his 
day's  haul  of  trout -flesh.  But  only  Ethan  knows  their  swimming 
grounds.  If  you  chance  upon  him  in  your  walks  it  is  generally  near 
some  running  brook,  and  you  may  rest  assured  that  he  has  spotted  you 
from  afar,  and  has  hidden  his  pole  in  the  grass,  while  he  fusses  about 
the  fence  near  by,  adjusts  a  rail  or  two,  or  trims  up  the  lay  of  the  old 
stone  wall,  whistling  the  while  he  works,  and  when  you  come  upon  him 
he  will  start  and  say,  "  Lor',  haow  you  scairt  me !" 

•But  there  was  a  youth  who  proved  too  enterprising  even  for  Ethan. 
He  hung  around  the  house,  and  followed  Ethan  afield  as  he  stole  out 
across  lots  at  sunrise.  He  saw  him  take  his  fish-pole  from  its  hiding- 
place  along  the  fence,  and  trail  it  slyly  through  the  weedy  pasture  lot. 
He  tracked  him  for  a  mile  upon  the  hill-side,  and  at  last  shadowed  him, 
and  surprised  him  at  his  game,  in  the  midst  of  his  accumulating  string 
of  beauties  that  lay  wriggling  on  their  osier  in  the  water.  When  at  last 
that  sudden  yell  rung  out  from  among  the  weeds  close  by  our  Nimrod 
almost  toppled  off  his  perch  upon  the  cross-rail.  Ethan  was  provoked, 
and  showed  it ;  but  he  took  in  the  situation  philosophically,  and  made 
the  best  of  it. 


88 


HI  G  H  WA  YS    A  ND    B  Y  WA  YS. 


SHADOWED. 


"  Say,  Bub,"  he   inquired, 
with    a  listless   yawn    that   was    lu 
dicrous    enough    in    contrast   to    his 
eager  qui  vive  upon  his   perch   only 
a  moment  previous,  "  wut  time  is't  ?" 

"  Well,  it's  about  time  to  give  another  feller  a  show  now,  Ethan." 
"  Wa'al,  yeu  kin  hev  it  'n'  welcome  for  all  me,"  replied  he.     "Pm  jest 
abaout  tuckered  aout  tryin'  to  work  the  old  hole.     I  guess  I'll  be  gittm' 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  89 

home,  'n'  try  the  river  agin.  I  might  'a  knowed  they  wa'n't  no  pike  in 
this  'ere  puddle." 

"  Come  now,  Ethan,  that's  too  thin.     Have  you  had  any  luck  ?" 

"  Luck  ?  Wa'al,  I  cal'late  yer  wouldn't  see  me  a-gittin'  aout  o'  here 
ef  they  wuz  enny  luck,  I  kin  tell  ye,"  answered  he,  twisting  his  line  about 
his  rod  in  preparation  to  depart. 

"  No  luck,  eh  ?"  continues  Bub.  "  What's  that  string  of  trout  doing 
down  there  among  the  weeds  ?" 

"  Whar?"  exclaimed  Nimrod,  agape,  and  gazing  everywhere  upon  the 
bank  excepting  at  the  right  spot. 

"  Why,  down  there  at  the  water's  edge." 

"  Oh,  them !  Oh,  yeu  took  them  for  traout,  did  ye  ?  Haw  !  haw  ! 
W'y,  Bub,  wut's  the  matter  on  ye  ?  Thems  live  bait.  I'm  fishin'  for 
pickerel,  'n'  I  vaow  they're  pesky  scarse.  I  b'lieve  I'll  go  'n'  try  the 
river  agin,"  and  he  lifted  his  five  pounds  of  "  live  bait "  and  started  on 
his  way,  while  "  Bub  "  remained  to  scare  the  fish,  as  usual. 

For  an  hour  or  more  Ethan  had  been  thus  monopolizing  an  impor 
tant  section  of  our  squirrel's  thoroughfare.  It  is  the  cross-pole  of  the 
water  fence  that  spans  the  brook — a  point  whereon  the  squirrel  and  the 
halcyon  meet  on  common  ground.  It  is  the  chosen  highway  of  our  red 
rover  to  favorite  hunting  grounds  beyond.  At  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  stream  he  follows  the  rail  through  a  tangle  of  feathery  willows,  and 
up  a  steep  incline  beneath  dark  and  sombre  pines.  Here  he  looks  out 
ahead  across  a  blue  and  hazy  valley,  with  glistening  lakes  and  silvery 
ribbons  of  winding  streams,  as  he  speeds  along  beneath  the  drooping 
boughs  of  mingled  beeches  and  rock -maples.  Now  he  is  out  again 
upon  his  zigzag  course,  past  clearings  with  their  blackened  stumps  and 
crimson  fire-weed,  through  rocky,  weed-grown  pasture-lands  and  fallows. 
There  are  a  thousand  pictures  that  come  crowding  as  I  follow  his 
waving  banner — peeps  between  those  rails  that  will  linger  long  after 
they  have  crumbled  to  earth.  Here  a  low,  flat  marsh,  bristling  with 
sedge  and  bulrush — five  acres  in  a  mosaic  of  blossoms  and  thickset 
alders.  There  a  placid  lake,  with  softly  tossing  ripples  among  the 
floating  lily-pads  and  eel-grass.  Here  a  shelving  bank,  with  mulleins 
and  bleating  sheep.  Now  a  mumbling  mill,  with  saffron-colored  foam 
floating  from  its  moss-grown  wheel.  There  is  a  glimpse  up  hill,  with 
its  clang  of  geese — how  doth  memory  serve  to  harmonize  that  discord ! 

Now  we  follow  our  little  guide  where  he  branches  off  along  the  flat- 


D 


I 


topped   wall.      See   how  he  jumps 
among  the  woodbine,  now  dodging  out 
of  sight   behind   a   copse   of   elders,  or 
skipping   beneath    a   bower   of  sumacs ! 
Here  he  is  lost  beneath  a  covering  screen 

of   wild   grape,  and    the    startled    birds    fly   out   from    their   interrupted 
tippling  from   luscious   vine  clusters.      Yonder  he    appears   again   upon 


VINE    CLUSTERS. 


THE     SQUIRREL'S    HIGHWAY.  91 

the  half-wall  fence  among  its  bouquets  of  eupatoriums  and  scarlet  milk 
weeds,  where  he  stops  and  growls  awhile  at  the  exasperated  ploughboy, 
until  the  whizzing  stone  cuts  short  his  tirade.  Away  he  speeds  with 
whisking  tail,  past  road-side  lane  and  cornfield,  with  its  rustling  ribbons, 
until  at  length  there  comes  a  sudden  pitch  through  fields  of  grain, 
where  the  golden  sheen  of  the  billowy  wheat  chases  wave  on  wave 
across  the  upland  slope.  We  can  hear  its  whispers  as  it  bends  and 
sweeps  among  the  rails,  where,  if  we  look  closely,  we  may  detect  a 
nimble  figure  sitting  on  a  jutting  summit,  poising  to  catch  a  swaying 
tip  that  some  favoring  breeze  shall  send  him  ;  and  how  lightly  will  it 
dance  upon  its  stem  when  he  releases  it !  But  now  again  he  takes  the 
rails,  bounds  along  upon  the  hollow  birchen  pole,  stops,  turns,  whisks 
his  tail  in  a  last  adieu,  and  disappears.  The  old  fence  takes  him  to 
her  heart  again.  His  circuit  is  completed,  and  with  it  mine  ends  also. 


ACROSS  LOTS. 


Burly,  dozing  Humblebee, 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me. 

*  *  *  * 

Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 

Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and   vines. 
Flower-bells, 
Honeyed  cells, 
These  the  tents 
Which  he  frequents. 


Hot  midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone, 
Telling  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers. 

*  *  *  * 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 
Hath  my  insect  ever  seen, 
But  violets  and  bilberry-bells, 
Maple-sap  and  daffodils, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses  dwelt  among  : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed." 


\1  7E    have    followed    the 
squirrel    around    the 

circuit  of  his  fence  highway,  a  thoroughfare 
whose   every  inch  he  knows  by  heart.      As   the 

courier  of  a  routine  tour  he  is  without  a  peer.  But  in  our  present 
random  trip  across  the  fields  we  must  needs  look  elsewhere  for  our 
guide.  We  shall  find  him  close  at  hand.  I  have  bespoken  him,  and  he 
awaits  us  in  yonder  tufted  blossom-bed,  where  we  shall  discover  him 
dozing  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  or  perhaps  surprise  him  in  a  mood  of  all- 


98  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

absorbing  industry  as  he  revels  among  the  plumy  petals  and  drains  the 
nectar  from  the  blossom-cups. 

His  is  the  random  flight  that  I  would  follow;  his  the  rare  preroga 
tive  which  would  be  my  prototype — 

"  Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 
Sipping  only  what  is  sweet" — 

in  this  flight  of  fancy;  recalling  a  few  such  episodes  as  have  furnished 
sweets  to  me  in  my  random  walks,  and  which  still  invite  the  bee  in 
every  meadow,  wood,  and  field.  Would  that  my  wings  possessed  the 
magic  hum  that  should  call  the  swarm  from  the  busy  hive  into  the 
gladness  of  these  pleasant  fields ! 

There  is  something  new  to  be  learned  in  every  square  foot  of  nature, 
if  one  will  only  look  with  open  eyes.  Indeed,  on  every  hand, 

"  Whether  we  look  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten." 

I  have  known  our  lovely  fringed  orchis  (Habenaria  fimbriata)  nearly 
all  my  life,  but  only  recently  did  I  discover  that  I  had  looked  it  in  the 
face  all  these  years  with  mere  half -intelligent  recognition  —  the  true 
significance  of  its  flower,  its  most  wonderful  and  vital  attribute,  had 
escaped  me. 

For  years  I  thought  I  knew  all  there  was  to  be  known  about  our 
common  milk-weed.  I  knew  the  savory  relish  of  its  early  sprouts  in 
spring.  I  knew  as  well  every  natural  dependent  upon  its  bounty,  from 
its  small  red  beetle  and  striped  Danais  caterpillar,  the  woolly  herds  upon 
its  leaf,  and  jewelled  nymph  beneath  its  shadow,  to  the  quivering  butter 
flies  which  I  had  so  often  picked  half-tipsy  from  the  heavy  nectar  of  its 
plethoric  blossoms.  Its  floating  cloud  of  silken  sheen  had  always  been 
my  delight ;  and,  with  its  lush,  nutritious  growth  and  generous  pulse,  I 
had  often  wondered  at  the  apparent  neglect  and  inutility  of  a  weed  so 
richly  blessed  in  seeming  possibilities  of  usefulness.  I  had  analyzed  its 
flower — had  seen  the  bee  at  work  upon  its  horns  of  plenty;  bat,  even 
with  a1 1  this  considerable  acquaintance,  "  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain 
heart"  was  yet  denied  me.  I  had  failed  to  discover  the  most  remark 
able  feature  of  the  plant  —  the  actual  secret  of  its  existence  in  the 
strange  fertilization  of  its  flower  by  the  very  insects  I  had  so  often  seen 
upon  it. 


ACROSS    LOTS. 


99 


It  were  a  rash  man  who  should  say  he  knows  the  wild  flower  when 
he  sees  it — the  violet,  the  orchid,  or  columbine.  A  nodding  acquaint 
ance  there  may  be,  but  one  does  not  thus  become  a  confidant. 

There  are  few  of  us,  I  imagine,  but  could  call  by  name  the  ever 
lasting  flowers  that  whiten  our  pasture-lands  and  clearings,  scenting  the 
summer  air  with  their  nut-like  fragrance.  But  I  wonder  how  many  of 
us  possess  their  confidence  sufficiently  to  have  discovered  the  recluse 
that  hides  among  their  blossoms  ? 


HILL-SIDE    STUBBLE. 


The  transformation  of  the  insect  is  a  theme  which  has  always  pos 
sessed  a  strange  fascination  for  me.  Even  as  far  back  as  I  can  remem 
ber,  while  yet  the  sacred  story  of  the  Resurrection  was  but  a  weird  and 
ghostly  picture  in  my  mind — a  mind  as  yet  too  immature  to  realize  the 
significance  of  deeper  spiritual  truth — I  am  conscious  that  in  the  study 
of  the  insect,  in  the  contemplation  of  its  strange  metamorphic  sleep, 
and  in  the  figure  of  the  bursting  chrysalis,  I  found  my  earliest  divine 
interpreter. 

"  Man  cannot  afford  to  be  a  naturalist,"  says  the  wrapt  philosopher 
of  "  Walden,"  "  to  look  at  Nature  directly.  He  must  look  through  and 


100  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

beyond  her.  To  look  at  her  is  as  fatal  as  to  look  at  the  head  of 
Medusa — it  turns  the  man  of  science  to  stone." 

Of  all  my  rambles,  with  their  ever-increasing  fund  of  interesting  dis 
covery,  there  is  none  so  often  followed  in  the  saunterings  of  my  mem 
ory  as  that  which  led  me  to  my  earliest  introduction  to  the  study  of 
entomology. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  June,  and  nature  was  bursting  with  exuberance. 
The  very  earth  was  teeming  with  a\vakening  germs — here  an  acorn,  with 
its  biformed  hungry  germ — parody  on  the  dual  mission  of  mortal  life 
— one  seeking  earth,  the  other  heaven ;  here  an  odd  little  elf  of  maple, 
with  his  winged  cap  still  clinging  as  he  danced  upon  his  slender  stem ; 
while  numerous  nameless  green  things  clove  the  sod,  and  matted  leaves 
and  slender  coils  of  ferns  unrolled  in  eager  grasp  from  their  woolly 
winter  nest. 

But  dear  to  my  heart  as  were  these  familiar  tokens,  how  quickly  were 
they  all  forgotten  in  my  contemplation  simply  of  a  little  stone  that  lay 
upon  a  patch  of  mould  directly  at  my  elbow,  and  my  wondering  eyes 
were  riveted  upon  it,  for  it  seemed  as  though  in  the  universal  quickening 
even  this  also  had  taken  life. 

I  can  see  it  this  moment.  It  moves  again,  and  yet  again,  until  now, 
with  a  final  effort,  it  is  lifted  from  its  setting  and  rolled  away,  while 
in  its  place  there  protrudes  from  the  ground  a  chrysalis  risen  from  its 
sepulchre.  Filled  with  wonder,  I  sit  and  watch  as  though  in  a  dream, 
awaiting  the  revelation  from  this  mysterious  earthly  messenger,  when 
suddenly  the  encasement  swells  and  breaks,  the  cerements  are  burst,  and 
the  strange  shape  gives  birth  to  the  form  of  a  beautiful  moth — a  tender, 
trembling  thing,  which  emerges  from  the  empty  shell  and  creeps  quiver 
ing  upon  an  overhanging  spray. 

Now  followed  that  beautiful  and  wondrous  unfolding  of  the  winged 
life  —  the  softly -falling  crumpled  folds,  the  quivering  pulsations  of  the 
new-born  wings  eager  for  their  flight,  until  at  length  their  glory  shone 
in  purity  and  perfection — a  trial  flutter,  and  the  perfect  being  took  wing 
and  flew  away ! 

Thus  did  I  become  a  votary  to  that  science  known  as  "entomology." 
What  wonder,  then,  that  it  should  yield  to  me  in  after-life  a  winged  sig 
nificance,  a  spirit  of  unrest  that  bursts  the  shell  of  mere  terminology,  and 
enjoys  a  realm  of  resource  not  found  in  books,  except,  indeed,  between 
the  lines  ?  For  the  entomology  which  I  would  seek  is  not  yet  written, 


ACROSS    LOTS.  Jj  '.   I0i 

and  it  is  beyond  my  conception  that  any  one  among  its  votaries  could 
witness  unmoved  by  its  deeper  impress  a  spectacle  such  as  this,  or  could 
find  through  the  retina  of  science  aione  an  ample  insight. 

Here  is  a  phenomenon  that  is  well-nigh  as  common  in  nature  as  the 
bursting  of  a  bud  or  the  unfolding  of  a  leaf,  and  yet  how  rarely  is  it 
noted !  We  have  seen  that  withered  leaf  upon  the  sassafras  a  thousand 
times,  and  passed  it  by  in  ignorance.  The  leafy  hammock  of  the  nettle 
has  shielded  close  its  willing  captive,  not  only  from  the  searching  scrutiny 
of  bird  but  from  our  eyes  as  well.  Among  the  meadow  milk-weeds  a 
pendent  gem  of  emerald  and  gold  has  often  touched  our  unconscious 
hands.  And  why  have  we  never  thought  to  look  beneath  that  artificial 
tent  of  the  drooping  hop-leaf  for  the  rare  jewel  hanging  there? 

Years  ago  the  tell-tale  contour  of  a  nodding  leaf  upon  the  wood-nettle 
arrested  my  attention  in  a  shady  walk — a  quaint,  drooping  canopy,  formed 
by  the  cutting  of  the  three  main  ribs  of  the  leaf  close  to  the  petiole.  I 
plucked  it  and  looked  beneath,  and,  forgetting  the  sting,  I  held  my 
breath  in  contemplation  of  the  beautiful  object  that  met  my  eyes.  Won 
drous  aurelia  !  Divine  mosaic  !  Paragon  of  symbolic  art !  Ye  famed 
emblazoners  of  ancient  Egypt — elect  of  Memnon  !  illuminators  to  the 
god  of  Thebes ! — where  is  the  glory  of  your  gorgeous  gilded  sepulchres  ? 
mockeries  of  the  chrysalid,  your  royal  glittering  encasements  of  your 
mummied  princes,  queens,  and  kings?  How  does  that  mortal  splendor 
pale  beside  this  tiny  marvel  of  divine  illumination  ! 

Ye  modern  revellers  in  jewels  and  fine  gold,  behold  how  idle  is  your 
worship  !  Where  the  gaud  among  all  your  idle  trinketry,  with  its  mi 
metic  modelling  and  rare  embellishment  of  superficial  art,  that  is  not 
bedimmed  like  dross  in  the  presence  of  this  perfect  master-work  beneath 
the  nettle-leaf  ? 

Wherefore,  ye  craftsmen  of  gems  and  precious  metals,  that  in  all  your 
idle  mimicries  of  Nature's  forms,  your  parodies  of  her  "  beetles  panoplied 
in  gems  and  gold,"  your  mockeries  of  her  unoffending  butterflies  and 
libels  on  her  helpless  flowers,  your  jewelled  travesties  of  dew-drops  upon 
the  sculptured  leaf  or  pearl  upon  the  mimic  shell — wherefore  have  your 
eyes  escaped  this  matchless  prototype  ?  Look  upon  this  pendent  brill 
iant  beneath  the  leaf — this  heaven-illumined  mummy  of  Vanessa,  Cyn 
thia,  or  Danais.  Here  are  lessons  of  form  and  color  that  may  well 
employ  your  skill  and  exalt  your  passion  for  mimetic  art,  even  though 
they  shame  your  transcripts  to  the  dust.  Here  are  palpitating  opals — 


IO2 


'  ftIG  ff  WA  YS    A  ND    B  Y  IV A  YS. 


lustrous  ashen  films  smouldering  with  living  fires  of  iridescent  light 
Here  are  marvellous,  glittering  mosaics — beautiful  unsolved  hieroglyphs 
of  another  world.  Here  are  rainbow-tints  of  nacre  borrowed  from  the 
mother  of  no  earthly  pearl,  symbols  and  characters  in  nameless  filmy 
hues,  underlaid  with  malachite  and  emerald,  glistening  in  frost  of  silver, 
or  embossed  in  burnished  gold,  pure  and  refined  beyond  mortal  skill, 
untainted  with  alloy.  Verily  the  dross  of  material  earth  yields  no  such 
precious  metals. 

Well  may  the  alchemists  of  old,  blinded  by  their  worldly  avarice, 
have  sought  their  elusive  talisman  in  these  brilliant  emblems.  Well,  too, 
might  they  have  discerned  without  the  test  that  ethereal  metals  such  as 
these  defy  aught  but  the  mental  crucible ;  that  they  but  elude  the  flame 
to  ascend  and  mingle  with  the  light  that  gave  them  being — bright  prom 
ises  from  Heaven ;  textures  woven  from  sunbeams  and  wrought  into 
this  evanescent  winding-sheet  lent  to  the  slumbering  aurelia,  a  brief 
heritage  from  the  spirit-world. 


THE    WEED    MEADOW 


Here  we  come  upon  that  blessed  meadow  outburst  —  my  infinite 
delight — where  lifetime  offerings  bend  on  swaying  stalks,  and  Nature's 
book  is  bursting  with  its  beckoning  leaves — 

"  Only  a  bank  of  simple  weeds, 
Of  tangled  grass  and  slender  wind-blown  reeds; 
And  yet  a  world  of  beauty  garners  there." 

A  realm  of  singing  shadows  and  filmy  wings,  where 

"There's  never  a  blade  or  a  leaf  too  mean 
To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace." 


ACROSS    LOTS.  103 

Here,  along  its  edge,  we  come  again  upon  that  bed  of  everlasting,  where 
for  the  hundredth  time,  hidden  within  its  nest  of  blossoms,  I  discover 
that  same  beautiful  emblem,  always  a  suggestive  symbol  to  me ;  but 
here  among  the  immortelles  it  seems,  in  truth,  a  prophecy.  But  how 
often,  in  its  varied  forms,  is  this  prophecy  thrust  upon  my  vision  in  my 
daily  walks !  and  how  strangely  often  would  it  seem  as  though  it  van 
ished  beneath  the  glance  of  other  eyes !  Do  I  walk  the  streets  of  cruel, 
crowded  cities  ?  They  are  there.  They  "  make  their  beds  "  on  tree  and 
fence,  and  upon  the  lowly  .tenement.  Yea,  here  do  they  seem  to  find 
their  chosen  resting-place ;  and  I  have  beheld  them  weave  their  shroud 
among  the  folds  of  crape  upon  the  shadowed  threshold.  Perchance  I 
find  their  testimony  along  the  thoroughfares  of  wealth  woven  upon  the 
rich  fa9ade  or  gorgeous  vestibule — but  not  long,  my  fair  aurelia.  Grim 
irony !  How  often  art  thou  forbidden  entrance  or  swept  away ! 

I  stroll  among  the  "  cities  of  the  dead,"  and  they  meet  me  there.  I 
have  seen  the  shrouded  nymph  nestling  in  the  worn  inscription — the 
pendent  emblem  hanging  in  the  sculptured  niche,  and  the  new-born 
image  creeping  on  the  crumbling  tomb,  while  in  a  memorable  stroll 
not  long  ago,  loitering,  as  is  my  wont,  in  the  peaceful  confines  of  the 
village  church-yard,  the  revelation  came  again.  An  ancient,  tottering 
slab,  with  closely  -lichened  surface,  seemed  to  beckon  me.  I  sought 
a  piece  of  broken  stone  with  which  to  scour  the  surface,  that  I  might 
learn  the  testimony  thus  so  effectually  hidden,  almost  with  a  conscious 
ness,  it  would  seem,  when  at  last  the  quaint  inscription  revealed  to  me 
these  sentiments — and  what  a  strange  pathos  seemed  to  lurk  amid  these 
weird  intaglios  ! — 

THOV  •  GVISE  •  OF  •  MORTAL  •  FLESH  • 
PAVSE  •  6-  •  READ. 


A  Handfull  of  Dvst  lyes  buried  hear 
Last  vestige  of  what  Earth  held  dear 
What  I  am  now      So  yov  mvst  be. 
Then  ponder  well  my  words  to  thee. 

0000 

LAY  •  HOLD   •   ON   •  LIF E  •  ACQUIRE  •  WH*T   •  MORTAL5 
CAN.     •   HEAR  •    SEE  •  WITH   •  DEEP   •  CONCERN.     •  YE 
END  •    OF   •    MAN. 


104  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

None  but  myself  can  ever  know  the  thrill  of  that  beautiful  experi 
ence  when,  with  mind  wrapt  for  the  moment  in  the  heresy  of  this  grim 

tribute   from   the   tomb,  my  eye  chanced  to  fall 
upon  the  ground  beneath,  where  among  the 


faded  grass   I 

discovered   again 

that  omnipresent  prophecy  here 

— an    open    mummy -case    of   the      -JC.         "YE  END  OF  MAN." 

polyphemous  moth,  from  which  its 

life  had  flown.     Such  has  been  the  impress  of  the  insect  in   my  daily 

saunterings — such,  I  hope,  it  always  may  be  ;   for  verily  it  is  my  belief, 

with  "  the  greatest  of  metaphysical  poets,"  that 

"  He  who  feels  contempt 
For  any  living  thing  hath  faculties 
Which  he  has  never  used — thought  with  him 
Is  in  its  infancy." 

Nearly  every  one,  it  would  seem,  knows  a  caterpillar  well  enough  to 
shudder  at  the  sight  of  it — and  often,  be  it  admitted,  with  some  show  of 
reason ;  but  here  is  a  shy  recluse  among  these  everlasting-flowers  that 
I  would  disclose  in  its  hiding-place,  that  all  may  look  upon  it.  Rarely 
is  this  insect  noticed  by  the  casual  eye ;  and  naturally  enough,  for  it  is  a 
creature  of  the  darkness,  and  seldom  appears  to  feed  among  the  leaves 
except  at  nightfall,  secluding  itself  through  the  day  in  a  quaint  nest 
made  from  the  petals  of  the  everlasting-flowers  woven  in  the  meshes  of 
a  silken  web,  and  hung  therewith  among  the  blossom-clusters.  Many  of 
these  nests  have  doubtless  been  seen  by  casual  observers  and  noted  only 
as  withered  clusters  swaying  in  the  wind.  Indeed,  they  seem  to  have 


ACROSS    LOTS.  IC»5 

escaped  the  keener  eyes  of  entomologists  as  well,  for  I  find  no  mention 
of  them  in  their  books.  More  often  these  petal  -  bowers  are  hidden 
cosily  among  the  flower-heads ;  but  I  have  found  many  specimens,  four 
and  five  inches  in  length,  hanging  pendent  beneath.  Near  the  upper 
side  a  small  opening  may  be  discovered ;  and  if  we  look  within,  or  tear 
the  nest  asunder,  we  surprise  the  little  hermit  in  its  solitude — perhaps  a 
formidable-appearing  creature,  beset  with  spines,  ornamented  with  yellow 
spots,  and  banded  with  belts  of  yellow  and  maroon.  Such  is  its  more 
common  complexion.  But  occasionally  we  disclose  its  sleeping  chrysalis 
— an  exquisite  disguise,  that  well  might  win  the  laurel  as  a  product  of 
rare  bijoutry.  Bright,  indeed,  is  the  sleep  of  this  beautiful  aurelia,  if 
these  testimonies  paint  its  dreams !  A  pendent  form  of  solid  gold,  lit 
from  beneath  with  faint  flames  of  opal;  here  smouldered  and  half  lost 
beneath  a  bloom  of  ashy  silver,  or  flooded  with  a  tinge  of  emerald; 
inlaid  here  with  iridescent  pearl,  or  merged  into  a  molten  mosaic  of 
burnished  gold.  There  are  strange  devices  in  enamel  of  golden-green, 
and  all  chased  and  sculptured  with  ornate  art  that  defies  the  lens,  and  to 
which  the  microscope  is  but  an  eye  to  infinite  realms  of  exalted  splendor. 

Such  is  the  rare  jewel  that  hangs  among  the  immortelles. 

Thus,  one  by  one,  did  the  weeds  and  vines,  the  folded  leaves  and 
blossoms,  yield  their  confidences  to  me.  But,  alas !  as  the  years  stole  on, 
laden  with  their  accumulated  store  of  experience  and  discovery,  there 
came  with  them  a  host  of  troublous  thoughts  and  testimonies  inexpli 
cable.  The  chrysalis  had  become  my  ensign — my  unfailing  promise  of 
the  butterfly  —  and  the  butterfly  the  imago  of  my  aspirations.  But  on 
a  fated  day  I  saw  my  idol  arrested  in  its  flight,  pounced  upon  in  mid 
air,  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured  before  my  eyes  by  its  arch-enemy,  the 
sand-hornet.  I  was  suddenly  brought  to  realize,  in  my  boyish  fashion, 
that  the  glory  of  the  gorgeous  wing  was,  after  all,  but  dust — that  this 
member  must  soon  cease  to  flutter,  and  my  emblem  of  the  soul  "  must 
needs  perish  and  inherit  the  doom,  the  oblivion  of  all  flesh." 

Neither  was  this  all ;  for,  as  the  record  of  discovery  increased,  per 
plexities  innumerable  seemed  thrust  upon  me.  My  caterpillar  still  lived 
his  life  of  luxury ;  my  chrysalis  shone  resplendent  in  its  gold ;  but  my 
butterfly,  alas  !  not  only  did  it  perish  in  the  dust,  but,  woe  is  me  !  it 
finally  ceased  to  appear  at  all.  For,  look !  false  promise — the  gold  upon 
its  fair  encasement  has  faded  in  corruption,  the  pearl  has  disappeared, 
and  where  I  had  learned  to  watch  for  the  coming  resurrection  there 


io6 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


TESTIMONY   OF   THE 
IMMORTELLES. 


now  appears  a  nameless  shape — a  ghoul — an  impish 
throng,  perhaps,  that  gnaw  their  way  through   the 
prison  sepulchre,  and  leave  in  their  flight  but  an 
empty  tainted  shell — a  hollow  mockery,  whereon 
is  yet  discernible  the  irony  of  folded  wing. 

If  in  the  figure  of  the  butterfly  we  welcome 
the    accepted   sign    of  immortality,  personating 
the   flight  of  the    soul,  what,  then,  is   the   spir 
itual  correspondence  of  this  dread  ichneumon  of 
the    insect  world   by  whose    demoniacal   inter 
vention   the    identity  of  the  perfect  being  is 
annihilated,  absorbed,  and   replaced  by   this 
unnatural  progeny  ? 

The  parasite  is  omnipresent,  and 
often,  it  would  seem,  almost  omnip 
otent.      It  appears   in   endless 
disguises ;    an    army   that  peo 
ples  the  air  we  breathe,  and  that 
sows   broadcast  the   seeds    of  de 
struction.      No    creature    of  the   insect 
world  is  exempt  from  its  attack,  no  armor 
is  invulnerable,  no  shelter  a  pavilion.     The 
dweller   deep   within    the    solid    tree -trunk 
feels    the   destroying   thrust ;    the    refugee 
"  within    the   walled   circumference   of  a 
nut"  is  completely  at  the  mercy  of  his 
enemy ;  and  even  the  microscopic  embryo  in 
the  atom  of  egg  is  a  common  prey. 

But  the  vegetable  kingdom  knows  their 
dominance   as    well.      Have  you   seen   that 
swollen  bud   upon    the    osier,  the    abnormal 
scaly    cone    upon    the    cordate    willow,    that 
3^^      thorny  ball  upon  the  brier-rose,  or  the  crimson  berry 
<£ff         on  the  cinque-foil  ?     These  are  but  the  wily  pranks  of 
some  insinuated  egg,  and  of  its  artful  elf  that  holds  the 
growing  fibre  in  the  bondage  of  its  whim. 

Strange  mimic  fruits  are  borne  on  leaves  bewitched, 
the  tiny  bud  becomes  a  tessellated  tenement,  the  stem 


ACROSS    LOTS.  IO7 

a  bastioned  castle.  But  not  invulnerable,  for  these  in  turn  are  invaded 
by  the  parasite  with  weapons  from  without.  New  guests  are  ushered 
into  the  tempting  domiciles,  unbidden  patrons  that  proceed  to  eat  the 
host  at  his  own  table,  and  then  usurp  his  luxury. 

What  with  its  parasites  and  its  high-handed  murderers,  it  would  seem 
that  nature  were  a  vast  arena  (a  mirror  held  up  to  the  world  of  human 
life)  where  the  mighty  oppress  the  weak,  and  that  universal  massacre 
and  destruction  were  the  key-note  of  the  world's  economy.  The  blue 
bird  and  the  lark,  beloved  of  poets,  perpetuate  their  song  by  carnage. 
Murder  is  the  secret  impetus  of  the  swallow's  glancing  flight.  The 
happy-hearted  vireo  carols  his  overflowing  jubilee  from  the  leafy  tree-top 
— an  endless  offering  of  grace,  each  lovely  note  the  tell-tale  of  a  massa 
cre,  for  blood  is  in  his  eye. 

Consider  for  the  moment  how  "  these  thorns  upon  the  rose  of  life " 
pierced  the  heart  of  "  our  Lord  Buddha"  when, 

"  Looking  deep,  he  saw 
How  lizard  fed  on  ant,  and  snake  on  him, 
And  kite  on  both ;   and  how  the  fish-hawk  robbed 
The  fish-tiger  of  that  which  it  had  seized; 
The  shrike  chasing  the  bulbul,  which  did  chase 
The  jewelled  butterflies  ;   till  everywhere 
Each  slew  a  slayer,  and  in  turn  was  slain, 
Life  living  upon  death.      So  the  fair  show 
Veiled  one  vast,  savage,  grim  conspiracy 
Of  mutual  murder — from  the  worm  to  man, 
Who  himself  kills  his  fellow." 

Who  shall  solve  these  dark  problems  of  nature  ?  for  it  is  not  alone 
the  hieroglyph  of  chrysalis  or  the  painted  wing,  the  figure  of  resurrected 
moth  or  the  mockery  of  the  blighted  sepulchre,  that  tests  our  thought, 
but  every  living  or  inanimate  thing  in  some  form  invites  our  seeking, 
even  as  in  the  new-born  fern  it  takes  an  open  symbol,  and  mimics  the 
interrogation  point. 

There  are  stupendous  questions  even  in  leaves,  questions  yet  unan 
swered  in  opening  buds,  questions  that  glisten  in  the  air  on  plumy  seeds, 
riddles  in  rainbow  colors  imprisoned  in  a  petal,  and  an  endless  catechism 
hangs  on  many  a  fragile  stem. 

These  problems  greet  us  everywhere ;  and  often  may  we  find  them, 
easy  lessons  for  the  novice — acrostics,  as  it  were,  answered  in  the  asking. 


loS 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


FIELD    BOUQUET. 


You  are  sitting,  perhaps,  beneath  the  maple  on  the  hill-side.  A  small 
dead  twig  protrudes  from  the  foliage  directly  at  your  elbow.  How  deli 
cate  the  gray  tints  upon  its  bark !  See  the  scarred  joints  from  which 
the  opposite  leaves  have  fallen,  and  note  this  tiny  tuft  of  light-green 


ACROSS    LOTS.  109 

lichen,  and  this  double  bud  upon  the  swollen  tip.  Perhaps  you  strive  to 
pick  it  for  a  closer  look,  when,  lo !  it  moves.  It  is  a  caterpillar,  and  you 
are  bound  to  admit,  in  simulation  such  as  this,  an  obvious  intention. 

Again,  a  brilliant  moth  comes  hovering  swiftly  toward  you,  flashing 
like  a  scarlet  meteor  in  its  flight.  Suddenly  it  makes  a  fluttering  dive, 
and  alights  upon  the  gray  rock  at  your  feet,  and  is  gone.  Had  the 
granite  bowlder  absorbed  the  insect  it  could  scarce  have  more  effectu 
ally  disappeared.  In  vain  you  search  its  lichened  surface  for  that  brill 
iant  glow,  little  knowing  that  your  eyes  have  rested  on  the  object  of 
your  search  a  dozen  times,  and  that  your  hand  is  even  now  almost  in 
contact  with  that  living  coal  which  but  smoulders  for  a  moment  beneath 
the-  ashes  of  its  covering  wings. 

These  are  but  types  of  Nature's  lavish  hints,  concessions  to  the 
superficial  eye.  Self-evident  truths,  and  involving  no  mental  tax,  we 
readily  accept  them.  But  how  rarely  do  we  seek  the  testimonies  that 
are  hidden  from  our  view  —  indeed,  more  often  only  veiled  behind  a 
gauzy  petal,  wrapped  within  the  "cradle  of  a  leaf,"  or  nestled  in  the 
chalice  of  a  blossom  ! 

Truly  has  the  rapt  follower  of  our  "  humblebee  "  attested 

"  There  was  never  mystery  but  'twas  figured 
In  the  flowers." 

Why  should  the  starry  blossom  of  the  fringed  mitella  seek  the  snow- 
flake  as  its  model  ?  why  the  fluttering  orchid  coquette  with  the  butter 
fly  ?  why  this  single  violet  with  a  spur?  why  the  sweet -tipped  cornu 
copias  of  the  columbine  ?  What  elf  took  pity  on  the  painted-cup,  and 
decked  its  leaves  with  the  brilliant  scarlet  denied  its  hidden  flower  ? 
Did  he  send  the  tiny  winged  mignon  to  seek  the  creeping  cinque-foil, 
learn  the  disappointment  of  its  yellow  blossom,  and  with  magic  needle 
thread  those  crimson  beads  upon  the  fruitless  stems  ? 

The  dandelion  spreads  its  galaxies  upon  the  lawn — -a  rival  firmament. 
Who  shall  be  the  true  interpreter  of  this  "  El  Dorado  in  the  grass,"  this 

"  Dear  common  flower  that  grows  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold  ?" 

Why  the  quick  concealment  of  its  smothered  glow  ?  Is  it  with  con 
scious  shame  that  this  bending  stem,  mantling  with  crimson  blush,  with 
draws  its  faded  gold,  and  hides  beneath  the  lowly  leaves  ?  or  may  it  be 


no 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


with  patient  consciousness  of  that  coming  miracle,  when,  freed  from  its 
cumbrous  dross,  it  shall  rise  again  perfected  in  its  beauty,  transfigured 
as  a  vision  to  the  new-blown  faces  crowding  humbly  at  its  feet  ? 

Who    shall   despoil   those    cloistered   walls    of 
blue,  and  learn    the   secret   of   the 
gentian's   chastened  heart  ? 
The  veiled  magnolia,  too — 
was  ever  else  than  fragrance 
found    in    the    whisper    of 
that    sweet    breath 
floating  from  its  il 
lumined  prison  cell  ? 
Why  should  the  iris 
shield    its   gold, 
or  the  twin- 
leaved  colt's- 
foot    seek    to 
screen  its  flower? 
Why  indeed, 
my    humble 

birthwort,    unless     from 
wounded  pride  lest  the  world  should 
chance  to  see  thy  grovelling  offspring  ? 
Call  these  but  idle  bits  of  fancy.      Name 
them  what  you  will.      They  are   not  mine. 
They  are  but  echoes  of  a  still  small  voice 
from  the  heart  of  Nature,  and  I  lay  them  humbly  at  her  door 
— echoes  of  whisperings   so  distinct  and  loud   that   I  can  but 
wonder  with  pity  at  that  apathy  which  should  fail  to  hear,  or 
hearing,  pause  to  listen. 

Once  I  heard  an  orchid  say,  "  Why  do  my  petals  simulate 
the  swan  ?      Why  does  my  blossom   twirl  upon   its   stem,  and       ,.~    SJ  \ 
yet  unfold   again    with  faded   bloom  ?"      Another,  long  before 
me,  heard  that  self-same  voice — a  great  high-priest  of  Nature, 
one  who  "  took  no  private  road,"  but  looked  "  through  nature  up  to 
nature's  God."     He  yielded  to  the  invitation  of  that  mysterious  flower; 
he  won  its  confidence,  and   has    since   made  known,  to  the  wonder  of 
the  scientific  world,  the  revelation  that  had  lain  screened  behind  a  petal, 


ACROSS    LOTS. 


Ill 


awaiting  through  the  ages  for  its  chosen  confidant  and  disciple- 

lation  that  reads   like   the  mystic   chronicle  of  some  realm  of 

}      land,  illumined  with  that  supernal  lamp,  in  truth, 

"  the  light  which  never  was  on  sea  or  land." 

Here  among  this  blpssoming  tangle  an 
other  old  acquaintance  claims  our  recog 
nition,  shedding  its  spicy  fragrance  as  we 
press  among  its  foliage ;  but  not  for  thee, 
thou  seeker  after  similes,  for  it  tells  a 
worldly    tale.       This    is    the    aromatic 
tansy — a  name  long  since  supplanted 
in  my  mental  botany  by  the  more  sig 
nificant    if   less    general    title    of    "Aunt 
Huldy's  favorite,"  an   herb  whose  steeped 
infusion,  otherwise  ycleped  "  a  blessed  mixt- 
ur,"  this  aged  crone  believed  to  possess  the 
talisman    of    earthly    immortality.      But 
Aunt  Huldy   was  a  fickle 
"  creetur,"  and  had  many 
favorites     among     the 
"  yarbs."      Sweet-fern    and 

yarrow  in  their  various  potions 
soups,   etc.,   she   literally  fed 
upon ;  and  then  there  was 
the  boneset,  and  the  snake- 
root,  her  chief  godsend,  of 
whose  mysterious  habitat  she 
alone    possessed    the     secret. 
This    latter   plant,  season    after 
season,  it    is    believed,  supplied 
the   coffers  of  this   village 
simpler  to  the  tune  of 
a  whole  year's   neces 
sities.     Every  handful  of 
this  herb  meant  to   her  a  pre- 


-a  reve- 
wonder- 


ORCHiiJ. 


IRIS. 


cious  equivalent  of  coin  at  the  vil 
lage  store,  for  the  Virginia  snakeroot  was,  and  is  to  this  day,  a  trusty 
stand-by  in  most  New  England  villages. 


112  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

He  is  no  New-Englander,  certainly,  who  has  never  heard  of  "snake- 
root  tea ;"  but  who  is  he  that  has  ever  seen  aught  of  the  vegetable  but 
the  black  and  wiry  roots  ?  There  are,  probably,  few  of  our  native  plants 
represented  in  the  matcria  medica,  and  so  commonly  in  use,  that  are  as 
little  known  in  their  natural  state  of  growth,  and,  judging  from  the  reve 
lations  of  my  own  native  town,  the  explanation  is  not  a  difficult  one. 
At  best  this  plant  is  far  from  common  in  New  England.  It  is  notably 
fastidious  in  its  selection  of  habitat,  and  those  possessed  of  the  knowl 
edge  of  this  hunting-ground  are  seldom  prone  to  ventilate  their  botany. 
Indeed,  the  village  botany  class  is  usually  narrowed  down  to  one — the 
simpler.  Did  the  snakeroot  but  chance  to  reverse  the  order  of  nature, 
and  grow  with  its  roots  above-ground,  we  might  take  the  visible  hint  of 
the  fibrous  threads  in  our  bowl  of  "tea"  and  give  intelligent  search,  even 
though  it  had  a  showy  flower — a  label,  as  it  were — to  fix  in  our  memory, 
by  which  we  might  "  spot "  it  among  the  herbage.  But  the  snakeroot  is 
a  modest  benefactor  and  model  of  charity — does  not  placard  its  wares 
nor  parade  its  virtues. 

Like  its  cousin  the  wild  ginger,  the  blossoms  of  this  herb  are  insig 
nificant  affairs,  small,  bashful  things  that  hang  their  heads  and  hug  close 
to  the  ground  at  the  skirts  of  the  parent  stem.  As  a  flower  it  is  almost 
a  curiosity,  and  is  rarely  seen  except  by  herbalists  or  students  of  botany; 
and  its  leaf — well,  in  those  days  I  never  could  discover  that  it  had  such 
a  thing  as  a  leaf.  How  often  did  I  seek  for  some  such  glimpse  among 
my  newly-purchased  package  ! — something  tangible,  a  hint  that  should 
guide  me  in  my  daily  search  in  wood  and  field ;  for  I  knew  full  well 
that  of  all  the  native  drugs  at  the  village  store  the  snakeroot  was  the 
chief  desideratum,  and  I  also  knew  that  the  prescription  trade  in  this 
commodity  was  entirely  supplied  by  the  vigilant  Aunt  Huldy.  Day 
after  day  her  familiar  stooping  figure,  with  scarlet  hood,  might  be  seen 
at  the  medicine  counter  as,  with  knowing  wink,  she  unfolded  her  apron 
and  disclosed  those  bunches  of  fibrous  roots.  And  more  than  once  an 
eager  small  boy,  I  remember,  pressed  close  upon  her  elbow  in  hopes  of 
a  glimpse  of  something  green  among  that  tangle :  roots,  but  never  a  sug 
gestion  of  stem,  leaf,  or  flower.  These  tell-tale  signs,  you  may  be  sure, 
were  carefully  eliminated,  even  to  the  last  shred.  And  when  I  observed 
that  daily  stipend  passed  over  the  counter  to  the  miserly  old  dame,  and 
saw  the  precious  lucre  rolled  carefully  in  the  old  red  handkerchief,  and 
stowed  away  next  her  heart,  as  she  mumbled  her  incantation,  witchery, 


ACROSS    LOTS. 


1    f  !l 


THE    SIMPLER  S    FAVORITE. 


or  what  not,  I  became  suddenly 
convinced  that  this  sort  of  thing 
was   an   imposition.      "Anti-  mo 
nopoly"  became   my   cry,  and   I 
organized  myself  a  party  of  one 
to  put  down  this  great  injustice. 
I  determined  to  unlock  the  mys 
tery.      But  this    was   impossible 
without  a  key.     Could  I  but  get 
a  leaf !     Then  a  happy  thought 
struck   me,  and  I  sought  assist 
ance  from    my  botany  —  almost 
my    first    impetus    to    turn    its 
leaves  ;    and   while .  I   am 
conscious   that  in   this 
early  essay  those  pages 
seemed  little  less  than 
Greek  to  me,  I  remember 
feeling   as  I  read  that,  with 
its    petioled,    hastate -cordate 
leaf,  and  apetalous  flower,  with 
gynandrous    stamens,    sessile, 
adnate,   extrorse    anthers,   and 
trilobate,   truncate     stigma,    etc., 
the  Virginia  snakeroot  ought  to 
make    considerable    of   a    sensa 
tion  in   its   neighborhood,  and   I 
sallied  forth  with  renewed  confi 
dence  of  success.     I  sought  out 
several  suspicious-looking  plants 
that  seemed   to   look   rather  ex 
trorse,  or  gynandrous,  or  other 
wise  formidable  ;   but  it  availed 
me  little;  and  after  making  sad 
havoc  among  the  weeds  on  right 
and  left,  tugging  at  stalks  of  bu- 
gloss,  spikenard,  ginseng,  and  a 
long  companion  list,  turning  up 


HIGHWAYS    AND     BYWAYS. 


a  tap-root  here,  a  bulb  or 
tuber  there,  I  at  length  gave 
up  the  search  in  disgust,  and, 
still  undaunted,  resolved  upon  a 
more  practical  course. 

It  was  well  known  that  Aunt 
Huldy  took  her  walks  daily.     No 
one  seemed  to  know  whither   she 
went,  and  to  those  curious  ones  who 
watched  for  her  return  there  was  little 
satisfaction,  for  she  always  came  home 
empty-handed,  or  at  best  with   a  sprig 

of  yarrow,  tansy,  or  equally  common  herb,  while  on  the  following  morn 
ing,  bright  and  early,  she  would  appear  at  the  village  store  and  empty 


THE   MYSTERIOUS    ERRAND. 


ACROSS    LOTS.  ur 

an    apronfiil   of  these   aromatic   roots   upon   the   counter,  duly   receiving 
the  usual  payment  therefor. 

This  gave  rise  to  the  general  belief  that  the  snakeroot  was  one  of 
her  garden  crops.  But  I  knew  differently.  It  was  a  crop  that  was 
gathered  somewhere  among  the  mountain  woods.  Just  where,  she  only 
knew,  and  there  was  but  one  way  of  finding  out  her  secret,  and  this  way 
I  had  resolved  to  take  at  the  first  opportunity.  And  here  fortune 
favored  me;  for  while  walking  home  in  the  dark,  returning  from  a  swim 
at  "the  willows"  with  the  village  boys,  taking  a  short-cut  through  a 
lonely  wood,  I  was  startled  by  an  ominous  crackling  of  twigs  some  yards 
ahead.  I  stopped  and  listened ;  it  became  more  and  more  distinct,  until 
at  length  a  shadowy  form  emerged  from  the  bushes,  and  crossed  my 
path  only  a  few  feet  in  advance  of  where  I  stood.  It  was  the  figure 


of  a  woman  bent  with  age,  and  in  the  light  of  a  favoring  moon-ray  I 
discerned  the  scarlet  hood.  It  was  Aunt  Huldy,  and  her  face  was  set 
toward  the  mountain  path.  Here  was  my  golden  opportunity,  and  I 
embraced  it.  She  led  me  a  long  chase,  and  more  than  once  I  trembled 
in  my  shoes  as  I  crouched  behind  some  tree  or  dropped  among  the 
weeds,  observing  her  stop,  motionless  as  a  statue,  while  she  listened,  with 
the  opening  of  her  hood  turned  directly  toward  me.  Her  low,  mumbling 
voice  was  an  incessant  accompaniment,  and  every  now  and  then  I  could 
almost  catch  a  word  or  two  in  higher  cadence  among  the  weird  mono 
tone.  At  length  she  led  me  across  a  scrubby  pasture  lot,  from  this  into 
a  dark,  wet  wood  road,  and  out  again  into  an  open  clearing.  Here  she 
paused,  seated  herself  upon  a  stump,  and  I  watched  for  developments. 
But  she  was  immovable,  and  apparently  had  only  stopped  to  rest  and 
reconnoitre.  Satisfied  that  all  was  well,  she  resumed  her  walk,  varying 


lib 


HIGH  IV  A  \  S     AXD     RY\\'A  YS. 

her  mumbling  monotone 
by  a  quiet,  grating  laugh 
that  seemed  less  like  a 
human  utterance  than  the 
distant  laughter  of  a  loon 
hoarse  with  age. 

Thus     1     dogged     her 
footsteps      for      nearly      a 
mile,   when    she    suddenly 
seemed     to     slacken     her 
pace.     She  had  approach- 
the    edge    of    a    wood 
bordered    with    dark    hem- 
_ocks,   bevond    which    the 
moon    shone     at     its    full. 
The    jutting    tips    of    the 
evergreen     foliage     were 
sharply  cut  in   the   moon 
light,   but    all    below    was 
lost  in  a  deep  dark 

^ ^      shadow   thrown 

far     out     upon 
the    chaparral.       Into   this 
shadow     my     mysterious 
guide     disappeared,    and 
more  than  once  I  thought 
I  had  lost   her   in  its   gla 
mour,  until  at  last   my  cu 
riosity    met    its    reward,  as 
I  saw  her  emerge  into  a 
moon -ray    and    pause    be 
fore    a    large    tlat    stone, 
where  she  stood  and  listen 
ed    as   before,  looking    toward 
me  out  of  the  eloquent  shadow   of 
that  hood.     Then  she  stooped,  grasped  the 
edge  of  the  stone,  and.  with  a  wild,  unearthly 
nvu>Y,  croak,  rolled  it  from  its  place.      In  a  moment 


ACROSS     LO  I'S.  1  i  - 

more  she  was  down  upon  her  knees  before  it,  and  I  could  plainly 
detect  the  eager  motion  of  her  busy  hands.  Now  she  is  up  again;  she 
replaces  the  stone,  hobbles  to  a  clump  of  weeds  and  plucks  a  handful, 
and  turning  again  upon  her  path,  begins  her  homeward  journey. 

I  can  readily  recall  my  breathless  suspense  as  she  hurried  by  and 
almost  brushed  against  me  in  my  retreat  beneath  the  elders,  and  I  re 
member  well  the  startling,  pallid  face,  with  its  sharp-cut  shadows  of  the 
moonlight.  There  was  something  intensely  weird  and  uncanny  in  this 
aged  tig u re  prowling  by  herself  on  this  lonely  mountain-slope,  and  those 
mumbling,  broken  utterances  here  seemed  more  than  ever  like  the 
mystic  incantations  of  the  sorceress  which  nearly  every  one  supposed 
them,  until  upon  this  eventful  night  I  caught  their  import  from  the  grin 
of  those  withered  lips.  How  quickly  did  that  mysterious  spell  vanish 
beneath  the  revelation! 

"Find  'em,  kin  they?  Well,  let  'em  try  on't.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" — the 
closing  refrain  being  prolonged  into  a  loon-like  laugh  in  a  high,  broken 
voice  that  found  me  listening  for  an  answering  challenge  from  the  sleep 
ing  lake  that  lay  silvered  by  the  moon  in  the  valley  below.  "Aunt 
Huldy  knows  whar  to  git  'em,"  I  heard  her  say  as  she  swept  by. 

Ah,  my  deluded  dame,  be  not  too  loud  in  thy  exultation,  for  shadows 
have  ears,  and  this  night  thy  monopoly  shall  end  !  There  are  sermons 
in  stones,  neither  does  the  cunning  artifice  of  those  loose-lying  sprigs  of 
tansy  and  yarrow  half  conceal  the  rounded  weight  in  the  apron  below. 

I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  could  have  withstood  the  temptation  of 
jumping  out  upon  Aunt  Huldy  and  frightening  her  half  to  death  with 
a  wild  war-whoop,  but  when  I  consider  further  I  am  conscious  of  that 
overawing  suspicion  as  to  the  exact  status  of  this  old  crone.  I  remem 
ber  she  shed  an  atmosphere  of  chill  from  her  garments  on  that  night, 
and  I  dare  say  I  entertained  a  sense  of  dread  lest,  by  the  pointing  of 
her  skinny  finger  and  an  accompanying  hiss,  she  should  change  me  to 
a  toad  or  lizard  on  the  spot. 

But  soon  she  was  lost  to  eye  and  ear.  I  crawled  from  my  conceal 
ment,  and  sought  that  stone  with  an  eagerness  almost  akin  to  her  own, 
and  the  evidences  which  I  found  beneath  told  conclusively  the  story  of 
this  shrewd  scheme  of  duplicity  and  profit,  for  here  lay  the  withered 
stalks  and  leaves  of  the  precious  herb,  safely  concealed,  and  a  single 
tell-tale  cluster  of  the  spicy  roots,  which  in  some  unaccountable  way 
had  escaped  her  clutches. 


Il8  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

Of  course  the  spot  was  visited  on  the  following  morning  by  an  exult 
ant  small  boy  with  a  big  basket.  But  perhaps  it  is  unnecessary  to  add 
that  its  returning  weight  never  proved  a  burden.  For,  even  with  his 
"key"  in  hand,  no  opportunity  offered  for  its  use.  No  single  plant  had 
escaped  the  grasp  of  those  gleaning  fingers  or  the  fate  of  that  flat 
rock.  Small  boy,  thou  couldst  have,  done  better  on  that  morning,  for 
even  then,  not  half  a  mile  away,  another  stone  was  "  loading  up "  for  a 
nightly  pilgrimage  ! 

Here  comes  to  mind  among  my  "waving  lines"  a  twinkling  nest  of 
diamonds  among  the  bogs,  bathed  in  flashing  aureoles  of  emerald  and 
ruby,  birthplace  of  a  million  sunbeams.  Who  has  seen  the  scintillating 
sun-dew  hung  full  with  beads  of  crystal  ?  Let  such  bestow  their  char 
ity  upon  him  who  should  think  to  call  its  faintest  semblance  from  his 
pencil-tip. 

See  this  dazzled  fly,  that  with  hovering  buzz  alights  upon  those 
tempting  drops.  Why  this  eager,  clinging  touch  of  the  hungry  fila 
ments  that  hold  their  struggling  prisoner  dying  in  their  grasp  ?  Who 
cast  this  cruel  spell  upon  our  delicate  drosera  that  impels  this  life  of 
carnage,  and  yet  bedews  its  fringes  with  incessant  weeping  ? 

Near  by,  perchance — a  fit  companion — the  bacchanal  sarracenia  lifts 
its  fated  cup.  Strange  tyrant !  How  livid  the  downcast  face  of  that 
hideous  flower,  that  stalks  among  its  lairs,  and  seems  to  gloat  upon  the 
victims  of  its  poisoned  cups  !  Here  is  a  pit  whose  depths  are  yet  un- 
fathomed,  a  fated  leaf  whose  deadly  secret  has  been  sought  in  vain,  a 
charnel-house  from  which  no  voice  has  yet  been  heard,  and  yet  how 
readily  do  we  "  tread  on  it  with  our  clouted  shoon,"  and  dismiss  it  with 
a  mere  smile  of  humor  and  curiosity,  that  ready  refuge  of  the  superficial 
mind !  To  such  the  rose  is  cherished  for  its  sensuous  loveliness.  In 
its  fragrance  and  its  beauty  there  is  reason  for  its  being.  To  such  the 
noisome  hermit  of  the  marsh,  the  swamp-cabbage  flower,  but  blooms  for 
the  gaze  of  toads  and  frogs  and  creatures  of  the  boggy  ooze,  fit  compan 
ion  for  the  lizard  and  the  dwellers  of  the  mud.  Uncouth  children,  such 
as  these  are  called,  conceived  by  Mother  Nature  in  her  trespasses  of 
revelry,  outbursts  of  her  latent  playfulness  and  waywardness,  eccentrici 
ties  for  the  idle  amusement  of  humanity,  or,  in  fine — why  not  ? — mani 
festations  of  a  certain  sort  of  divine  humor ! 

Who  has  not  seen  this  lowly  tenant  of  the  bogs,  and  wondered  at 
its  worthless  life  ?  Many  of  us,  no  doubt,  have  had  our  little  laugh  at 


ACROSS    LOTS. 

the  tiny  eager  fist  of  the   catchfly  closing   upon  its   cap 
tive  ;  the  quaint  pendent  pitchers  of  nepenthes,  and  the 
strange,  inflated  calyxes  of  aristolochias,  have  doubtless 
brought  a  smile  as  we  have  passed  them  in  the  tropic 
of  the    conservatory ;    but  how  often    have    we  glanced 
behind,  and  detected  their  parting  look  of  pitying  com 
passion  at  our  shallowness  and  ignorance  !     To  such 
a    retina    as    this    Nature    must    forever    remain    a          ^ 
blank  —  a  close -lipped  shell,  even  though   with   a 
fair  exterior,  yet  shielding  close  the  pearl  within  ; 
a   story   without    a    beginning,  instead   of  a  story 
without    an   end.      Nature    is  "  a   jealous   goddess," 
and  demands  the  homage  of  the  "  inward  eye."     No 
pedant  need  expect  a 
revelation     from     her 
fair  page.     Approach 
ed    in    such    a    spirit,  and,  like    the 
sensitive  mimosa  rudely   touched,  she  shuts 
her  leaves.      No  flower  of  hers  is  born  to  the  ^i^ffl 

•    ,    '.\  4 

predestined    martyrdom    of    a    superficial    eye. 
Has   this  snowy  petal   a  spot   upon   its  white 
ness,  it   has    its    correspondence    and    its   deep 
significance.     There  are  no  accidental  blots   on 
Nature's    book.      Seek    and    ye    shall   find   its 
hidden  truth.     Does  the  trefoil  fold 
its    palms    at   night -fall,  or    the 
primrose  light  its  lamp  at  dusk  ? 
It  is  not  their  fault  that 
they    bequeath     no 

blessing     to          fjti 
you,  but  be-       fijgf 
cause  ye 


119 


Sfc££?$P 


SUN-DEWS. 


120  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

are  blind.  "  Eyes  have  ye,  but  they  see  not."  They  are  unblest  of 
that  deeper  inspiration  which  seeks  Nature  with  the  bowed  head  and 
bended  knee  of  Wordsworth  when  he  avows, 

"To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

For  there  are  eyes  and  eyes — eyes  that  merely  look,  and  others  "  made 
for  seeing" — "windows  of  the  soul."  Else  the  world  of  nature  had 
never  known  the  heritage  of  such  names  as  Darwin,  Huxley,  Agassiz, 
Huber,  Swammerdam,  Sprengel,  Linnaeus,  White  of  Selborne,  and  the 
rest  of  their  great  fraternity.  The  vital  mission  of  our  "  bumblebee," 
the  lessons  of  the  ant,  the  wonders  of  the  orchid,  and  the  deeper, 
more  mysterious  errand  of  that 

"  Painted  populace 
That  live  in  fields  and  lead  ambrosial  lives," 

had  yet  remained  in  obscurity;  the  humble  earthworm  and  its  special 
mission  still  lain  buried  beneath  our  feet,  sole  mask  for  the  luring  fish 
hook,  the  testy  prey  of  robin  on  the  lawn,  or  quarry  of  dark-dwelling 
mole  beneath  the  sod ;  and  we  above  as  darkened  and  as  blind  as  they. 

Philosophical  astronomy  may  picture  to  horrified  humanity  the  re 
sultant  chaos  and  annihilation  of  a  sun  extinguished,  or  indeed  of  the 
merest  deviation  in  the  orbit  of  a  single  planet,  but  who  could  foretell 
the  direful  consequences  that  might  follow  from  the  extermination  even 
of  a  single  species  of  these  tiny  "meadow  tribes" — yea,  even  the  mos 
quito,  forsooth  ! — when,  most  humble  of  them  all,  the  lowly  earthworm 
rises  to  such  lofty  proportions  of  importance  in  the  world's  economy  ? 

Thanks  for  this  last  token  of  a  life  of  meek  devotion,  a  humility  that 
could  stoop  to  learn  even  at  the  burrow  of  the  earthworm,  and  which 
should  find  a  period  of  thirty  years  too  short  a  time  in  which  to  plead 
the  cause  of  this  most  despised  and  lowliest  of  animated  creatures.  The 
lawn  and  meadow,  the  mountain  and  the  mighty  river,  take  on  a  new 
significance  and  a  new  religion  beneath  the  lessons  of  this  last  volume 
of  the  lamented  Mr.  Darwin. 

"  When  we  behold,"  he  remarks  in  conclusion,  "  a  wide  turf-covered 
expanse,  we  should  remember  that  its  smoothness,  on  which  so  much 
of  its  beauty  depends,  is  mainly  due  to  all  the  inequalities  having  been 
slowly  levelled  by  worms.  It  is  a  marvellous  reflection  that  the  whole 


ACROSS    LOTS.  I2i 

of  the  superficial  mould  over  any  such  expanse  .has  passed,  and  will 
again  pass  every  few  years,  through  the  bodies  of  worms.  The  plough 
is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  most  valuable  of  man's  inventions,  but 
long  before  he  existed  the  land  was  in  fact  regularly  ploughed,  and  still 
continues  to  be  thus  ploughed,  by  earthworms.  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  there  are  many  other  animals  which  have  played  so  important 
a  part  in  the  history  of  the  world  as  have  these  lowly -organized 
creatures." 

That  charming  naturalist,  White  of  Selborne,  from  whom  Mr.  Dar 
win  received  his  earliest  inspiration  in  this  field  of  study,  has  declared, 
as  a  result  of  his  own  investigations,  that  "without  worms  the  earth 
would  soon  become  cold,  hard-bound,  and  void  of  fermentation,  and 
consequently  sterile." 

They  are  Nature's  own  gardeners  and  tillers  of  the  soil.  They  peo 
ple  the  sod,  and  feed  the  roots  of  plants  with  fertilizing  elements  of 
debris,  which  they  draw  into  their  burrows  or  bury  beneath  the  rich 
humus  of  their  castings.  In  many  parts  of  England,  we  are  told,  new 
subsoil  to  the  weight  of  over  ten  tons  per  acre  is  thus  brought  to  the 
surface  each  successive  year.  Nor  is  this  all.  Washed  by  rains,  this 
vast  accumulation  of  mould  is  swept  from  the  sloping  hill-sides,  denud 
ing  the  surface,  and  at  length  even  affecting  the  contour  not  only  of 
hills  but  mountains ;  thus  it  is  poured  into  the  streams,  thence  into 
great  rivers,  which,  finally,  may  be  turned  from  their  natural  channels 
by  this  gradual  deposit,  and  the  consequent  raising  of  their  beds  to  the 
level  of  the  adjacent  land.  Again,  in  the  form  of  dust  this  mould  is 
blown  by  the  wind ;  and  many  instances  are  known  where  ancient  build 
ings,  and  even  ruined  cities,  have  thus  been  buried  beneath  the  castings 
of  the  earth-worm. 

Under  the  ministry  of  such  books  as  these  one  may  well  look  upon 
his  path  with  solicitude  of  his  footprints,  and  reproach  the  memory 
of  those  rampant,  boyish  days  when  nature  seemed  a  vast  menagerie 
sent  for  him  to  tame,  when  every  bird  was  but  a  living  target,  "  name 
less  without  a  gun,"  every  insect  a  gewgaw  for  a  pin,  and  every  flower 
"  a  thing  beneath  his  shoon,"  or  a  gaud  to  pluck  and  throw  away.  Per 
chance  he  may  recall  that  emblematic  picture  of  a  tiny  apron  filled  with 
wilting  blossoms  of  the  meadow,  of  the  dimpled  fists  that  scarce  could 
hold  the  overflow,  and  of  the  idle  tears  that  fell  because  whole  fields 
of  beckoning  bloom  must  still  be  left  behind  —  fields  wherein  we  shall 


122 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


walk  in  after-life,  longing  vainly  for  wings,  if  only  to  lift  us  from  the 
carnage  of  a  crushing  foot — where 


where  every  clod 


"  In  the  grass  sweet  voices  talk ;" 


"  Springs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ;" 


and  where  one  feels  the  impress  of  a  sentiment  sublime,  which  might 
almost  take  the  voice  of  Buddha : 

"  Kill  not,  in  Pity's  sake,  and  lest  ye  slay 
The  meanest  thing  upon  its  upward  way." 


AMONG  OUR  FOOTPRINTS. 


V- 


"  He  had  felt  the  power 
Of  Nature,  and  already  was  prepared, 
By  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 
Deeply,  the  lesson  deep  of  love  which  he 
Whom  Nature,  by  whatever  means,  has  taught 
To  feel  intensely  cannot  but  receive. 

****** 
Oh,  then  how  beautiful,  how  bright,  appear'd 
The  written  Promise  !      He  had  early  learn'd 
To  reverence  the  Volume  which  displays 
The  mystery — the  life  which  cannot  die. 
But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feel  his  faith : 
There  did  he  see  the  writing,  all  things  there 
Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life, 
And  greatness  still  revolving,  infinite  ; 
There  littleness  was  not ;    the  least  of  things 
Seemed  infinite  ;    and  there  his  spirit  shaped 
Her  prospects,  nor  did  he  believe — he  saw. 
What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  ?      Low  desires, 
Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place  :    yet  was  his  heart 
Lowly  ;    for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude 
Oft  as  he  called  those  ecstasies  to  mind, 
And  whence  they  flowed,  and  from  them  he  acquir'd 
Wisdom,  which  works  through  patience  :    thence  he  learn'd 
In  many  a  calmer  hour  of  sober  thought 
To  look  on  Nature  with  a  humble  heart, 
Self-question'd  where  it  did  not  understand, 
And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love." 


A*f  *n 

VM    *$N 
v>^fP 

*&&:** 


"^O   one   naturally  pos- 
sessed  of  a  keen  and 


searching   vision,  perpetually   edu 
cated    by    that    continual    practice    in 
spired   by   a   love   of  nature -study,  the 
judgment  of  Thoreau   upon   the  "walkers"  of  his  period,  or  at  least  of 


128  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

his  acquaintance,  wins  an  emphasized  significance,  if  not  an  added  senti 
ment  of  hearty  endorsement :  "  I  have  met  with  but  one  or  two  persons 
in  the  course  of  my  life  who  understood  the  art  of  walking — that  is,  of 
taking  walks."  It  is,  moreover,  by  no  means  a  distinction  without  a 
difference  that  prompts  the  final  modifying  phrase;  for,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  if  the  truth  were  known,  I  believe  it  would  be  found  that  the  best 
"  walkers "  were,  as  a  rule,  the  least  accomplished  in  the  art  of  "  taking 
walks." 

The  "  art  of  walking  "  smacks  of  the  wager  and  the  sawdust  course. 
It  is  the  pedestrian's  art — physical,  headlong,  and,  from  our  present  stand 
point,  wholly  imbecile  and  unprofitable.  Getting  over  the  ground  is  its 
sole  ambition ;  and  while  it  were  well  enough  in  its  proper  place,  it  is, 
unhappily,  not  confined  to  the  sawdust  track.  Its  spirit  has  become  a 
contagion.  We  see  it  running  riot  every  summer  in  our  country  pil 
grimages.  It  climbs  the  mountain  for  the  simple  glory  of  the  feat.  It 
spins  out  the  miles  into  the  tens  and  twenties  with  pride  of  physical 
endurance,  ploughing  its  way  through  Nature's  fields  and  meadows  with 
no  higher  purpose  than  is  involved  in  the  simple  question  of  time  and 
speed — seemingly  to  pass  by  unheeded  or  tread  underfoot  the  greatest 
number  of  Nature's  treasures  in  the  shortest  space  of  time. 

The  estimate  of  Thoreau  was  certainly  rather  discouraging;  and 
while  I  am  convinced  that,  had  "  the  course  of  his  life "  been  happily 
extended  to  the  present  day,  he  would  have  found  a  much  more  hopeful 
prospect,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  there  is  still  a  "  plentiful  lack "  of 
that  deep  and  sincere  appreciation  of  Nature  which  is  the  great  secret 
and  the  chief  source  of  pleasure  and  profit  in  the  "  art  of  taking  walks." 

Not  but  that  there  are,  at  the  present  day,  a  large  number  of  people 
who  love  Nature,  and  are  imbued  with  a  certain  enthusiasm  in  her  pres 
ence  ;  but  how  often  is  this  enthusiasm  identical  with  that  of  a  child — 
of  an  infant,  if  you  will — over  some  gayly-colored  toy  ? 

It  is,  for  instance,  but  a  negative  sort  of  rapture  at  best  which  is 
only  to  be  awakened  from  its  lethargy  by  the  glare  of  a  gaudy  leaf  or 
the  sun -glitter  of  a  glistening  wing,  as  by  the  bauble  or  the  trinket. 
The  eye  is  not  only  abnormal  that  should  ignore  such  glaring  instances; 
such  a  retina  is  not  merely  unsympathetic  and  unresponsive :  it  is  blind. 
Who  is  he  that  could  disregard  a  brilliant,  flaming  copse  of  sumac  ?  and 
who  would  not  experience  a  sense  of  pleasure  at  having  seen  it  ?  The 
fiery  spike  of  cardinal -flower  gleaming  before  us  in  the  field  kindles  a 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  129 

sympathetic  flame  in  the  dullest  vision.  Our  eyes  are  riveted  upon  it, 
not  from  any  impulse  of  will  or  choice  of  their  own,  but  because  that 
glaring  torch  has  signalled  them  from  afar ;  while  at  the  same  time,  per 
haps,  our  hands  begin  to  tingle  with  the  sting  of  some  revengeful  nettle, 
seeking  recognition  through  another  sense,  too  often  the  most  keen. 

These  hints  abound  in  Nature.  They  are  her  forcible  appeals  to  the 
apathy  of  every  dormant  sense.  To  many  this  nettle  would  be  without 
a  name  were  it  not  thus  to  inoculate  itself  in  the  memory ;  and  yet,  even 
in  spite  of  its  impetuous  method,  you  will  sometimes  meet  an  individual 
who  has  been  stung  a  dozen  times  with  a  nettle,  and  is  even  yet  unable 
to  know  the  rascal  when  he  sees  it.  He  will  pick  those  forked  "  beggar's 
ticks  "  from  his  clothing  time  after  time,  and  still  fail  to  recognize  the 
original  "  beggar  "  in  his  native  haunts.  It  would  almost  seem  as  though 
some  folks  carry  their  eyes  in  their  pocket  whenever  brought  face  to 
face  with  Nature. 

I  remember  a  certain  short  conversation,  in  which  I  took  part,  last 
summer.  It  was  short  of  necessity,  and  cool — perhaps  owing  to  what  I 
might  call  a  lack  of  fuel.  My  respondent  was  a  dapper  young  man,  who 
had  but  just  returned,  aglow  and  exultant,  from  a  mountain -climb  at 
Conway.  He  had  "  done  it  in  two  hours ;"  and  he  was,  consequently,  the 
"lion"  of  the  occasion,  on  free  exhibition  to  an  admiring  circle  of  hotel 
guests  and  friends.  Anticipating  the  pleasure  of  the  same  trip  myself,  it 
was  but  natural  to  question  him  concerning  its  features  of  the  pictu 
resque. 

"  Is  there  a  fine  view  on  the  farther  side  of  the  mountain  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  What  are  its  particular  features  ?" 

"Well,  I  don't  remember  just  what  —  er  —  er  —  mountains,  and  so 
forth." 

"  What  sort  of  a  path  ?"  queried  I  further,  getting  down  to  hard-pan. 

"  Oh,  nice  and  shady  nearly  all  the  way." 

"  Mostly  hard-wood  trees,  I  presume  ?" 

«  Yes — er — er — principally  white  birch,  and — er — some  spruce." 

After  each  reply  he  would  come  to  a  dead  pause,  and  gaze  fondly  at 
his  pedometer. 

In  point  of  fact,  as  I  afterward  discovered,  the  "white  birch"  growth 
consisted  of  a  single  tree  near  the  summit,  almost  the  only  solitary  birch 
in  sight  of  the  path,  which  was  embowered  for  a  mile  with  beautiful  ma- 

9 


130 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


pies  and  great  smooth  beeches, 
besides  numerous  aspens,  poplars, 
mountain-ash,  and  spruces.  The 
"  birch  -  tree  "  in  question  was  a 
huge,  gnarled  veteran,  in  color 
as  glaring  as  a  whitewashed 
sign-board,  and,  in  further  sim 
ulation,  scarred  with  sculpt 
ured  names  and  hieroglyphs, 
among  which  were  the  new 
ly-engraved  initials 
of  our  friend. 


In    all    his 
tramp,  it  seemed, 
he   had    not   seen 
a  single  flower,  and,  with  the  ex 
ception   of  the  "  beastly  midg 
ets,"    not    an    insect.       He 
could  remember  some  whor-     // 

fin  /- -  - 

tleberries   and    raspberries, 


AMONG     OUR    FOOTPRINTS.  131 

while  the  only  bird  he  was  enabled  to  recall  was  "  a  bright  scarlet  fel 
low" — a  tanager,  of  course — bright  and  fiery  enough  to  have  burnt  a 
hole  in  the  memory  of  an  imbecile.  The  whortleberries  and  raspberries 
had  appealed  to  another  sense,  more  highly  cultivated  and  susceptible ; 
and  it  was,  doubtless,  the  same  tireless  craving  of  those  precious  jaws 
that  led  to  his  discovery  of  a  "  spruce-tree,"  by  the  lump  of  chewing-gum 
upon  its  baited  trunk. 

The  cause  of  that  faint  purple  tinge  upon  the  mountain -slope — 
a  glow  easily  discernible  even  as  we  conversed  on  the  piazza,  tinting 
the  chaparral  far  up  the  rugged  ridge — this  he  had  failed  to  discover, 
although  I  happened  to  know  that  his  path  had  led  him  directly  through 
its  midst,  with  its  dense  growth  of  flowering  fire -weed.  He  could  not 
even  now  explain  that  bluish  bloom,  spreading  like  a  faint  reflection  of 
the  sky  upon  the  plateau  of  yonder  mountain -spur,  although  it  was 
there  that  he  stooped,  amid  a  sea  of  bright  blue  -  berries,  and  clutched 
a  heavy-laden  bush,  with  which  he  hurried  on  to  save  his  precious  mo 
ments,  and  munch  in  secret  satisfaction  at  his  economy  of  time. 

He  was  but  a  type  of  a  large  class  of  "  walkers."  How  much  he 
missed  he  will  never  know,  nor  care  to  know.  On  the  day  following, 
however,  I  followed  his  footprints.  I  had  started  as  one  of  a  party  of 
four  adventurers  on  the  same  tramping-ground ;  and  I  was  not  greatly 
surprised  at  an  early  discovery  of  the  reigning  ambition  of  my  three 
companions  to  "  beat  the  record  "  of  their  predecessor.  I  dismissed  them 
with  pity,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  with  a  sense  of  impatience  only 
half-suppressed ;  and,  seating  myself  in  the  meadow — one  of  the  beautiful 
meadows  of  the  North  Conway  intervale,  through  which  lay  our  path— 
I  watched  their  wanton  progress,  as  they  crushed  and  trampled  through 
the  tangles  of  the  fields,  until  I  lost  them  among  the  distant  trees. 

It  was  a  fine  morning.  The  meadow-grasses  were  yet  glistening  with 
their  beads  of  morning  dew,  and  the  rowen  clover  clusters  still  held  up 
carefully  to  view  in  their  half-closed  palms  their  wealth  of  precious  gems 
gathered  in  the  shadows  of  the  night;  while,  extending  from  my  very 
feet,  far,  far  away  above  the  herbage,  the  spangled  meadows  glittered 
with  silken  gossamers — 

"Those  wiry  webs  of  silvery  dew  that  twinkle  in  the  morning  air" — 

flashing  with  their  radiance  of  sun  gems,  and  spreading  in  the  distance 
like  a  glistening  silver  sea. 


132  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

The  spider  is  a  common  object  of  aversion,  but  who  could  henceforth 
entertain  a  feeling  of  repugnance  for  the  humble  spinner  that  can  weave 
so  exquisite  a  fabric  as  this,  which  Nature  so  showers  with  her  jewels  ? 
And  as  we  espy  him,  within  the  opening  of  his  silken  tunnel,  waiting 
and  watching  for  a  living  morsel  for  that  morning  appetite,  who  could 
but  wonder  at  the  prospect  as  it  appears  to  those  eight  watchful  eyes 
as  they  look  out  across  this  bed  of  diamonds,  with  now  and  then  its 
dazzling  rainbow  flashes  gleaming  from  the  kisses  of  a  bevy  of  drops 
shaken  from  their  setting  on  the  web,  perhaps  by  the  commotion  of 
some  "high-elbowed  grig"  kicking  the  clover  leaves  or  alighting  aloft 
upon  the  swaying  tip  of  timothy-grass  ? 

And  now  a  bee  settles  above  upon  the  clover  blossom  —  a  crystal 
bead  is  tumbled  from  its  nestling-place,  and  falls  flashing  on  the  sloping 
canopy.  Another  and  another  are  overtaken  in  its  course,  glancing 
down  the  quivering  web  in  a  tiny  avalanche  of  sunbeams,  each  sending 
forth  its  parting  rainbow  gleam  as  it  penetrates  the  meshes  and  vanishes 
among  the  yielding  leaves  beneath. 

It  is  a  privilege  to  get  down  upon  one's  elbows  and  study  the  play 
of  light  among  this  spread  of  jewels.  Now  a  faint  filmy  aureola  glows 
in  an  iridescent  halo  about  some  palpitating  drop.  See  how  it  winks 
and  plays  with  the  twinkling  sunbeam,  now  tinting  the  air  with  a  melt 
ing  gleam  like  the  hovering  spirit  of  an  emerald,  ere  long  chased  away 
by  a  radiant  ruby  flame,  and  now  an  instant  of  glitter,  a  spangle  of 
light,  and  its  place  knows  it  no  more. 

It  is  a  privilege,  indeed,  to  search  such  a  footprint  as  this,  and  let 
the  eye  wander  among  the  infinities  of  the  grassy  shadows  among  which 
it  nestles.  Yes,  it  is  damp,  and  you  may  "  catch  your  death  of  cold," 
but  such  were  a  worthy  martyrdom.  The  colds  thus  caught  are  only 
too  few. 

I  confess  to  a  presumptuous  rashness  in  attempting  a  reproduction 
of  this  dewy  gossamer,  but  it  is  given  hopefully,  merely  as  an  alluring 
hint.  It  is  the  result  of  a  page  or  two  of  notes  and  sketches  made 
during  that  morning  walk,  faithful  even  to  that  little  fly  that  lit  so  tan- 
talizingly  near,  rubbing  and  twisting  its  toes,  brushing  down  its  wings, 
and  almost  pulling  off  its  head,  in  its  fussy  morning  toilet. 

It  was  interesting,  too,  to  watch  the  alert  figure  just  within  that 
silken  tunnel,  with "  each  separate  foot  on  the  qui  vive  for  some  tell-tale 
tension  on  those  webs.  And  what  is  that  subtle  power  of  distinction 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS. 


133 


by  which  those  feet  could  detect  the  difference  between  the  jostle  of  a 
falling  drop  and  the  touch  of  a  beetle  of  equivalent  weight,  even  though 
the  latter  were  out  of  sight,  upon   some  wing  of  the  "pretty  parlor  "- 
a  corner,  by-the-way,  where  the  dainty  carpet  was 
figured  with  a  relief  design  of  white  clover  bios-  ' 
soms  ?      But  no  sooner  had  that  beetle   touched  j 
the   web  than   our  spider  was   out  on   a  tour  of  ! 
investigation,   and    more    than    once    I    saw   him 
shake  down    a   shower  of  beads   below,  as 
he  scampered  back  to  his  charnel-house 
with  his  quarry  of  luckless  grasshopper 
or   cricket.       It    was 


••;:; 


A   BURIAL. 


curious,  too,  to  see  how  skilfully 
he    avoided  the  javelin   of  a   wasp 
which    had   become   entangled  in   his 
lair — partly,  be  it  admitted,  through  my 
connivance  ;   and  the  care  \vith  which  he 

confined  his  attentions  well  toward  the  harmless  end  of  his  victim  was 
truly  laughable:  now  throwing  over  his  unlucky  head  an  entangling 
cataract  of  floss  silk,  or  now  and  then  taking  him  unawares  by  a  quick 
assault  and  an  ugly  nip  in  the  neighborhood  of  that  slender  waist. 

The  sequence  of  this  tragedy  I  did  not  wait  to  see,  for  a  large  beetle 


134  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

came  humming  along  over  the  grass,  and  almost  tipped  my  ear  with  his 
buzzing  wings,  and  finally  alighted  near  a  clump  of  yarrow  close  by. 

How  often  do  we  hear  the  query,  "  What  becomes  of  all  the  dead 
birds  ?"  The  secret  of  their  mysterious  disappearance  was  half  told  by 
the  buzz  of  those  brown  wings,  and  the  other  half  is  welcome  to  any 
one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  follow  their  lead.  This  beetle  is  one 
of  man's  incalculable  benefactors.  It  is  his  mission  to  aid  in  keeping 
fresh  and  pure  the  air  we  breathe.  He  is  the  sexton  that  takes  be 
neath  the  mould  not  only  the  fallen  sparrow,  but  the  mice,  the  squirrels, 
and  even  much  larger  creatures,  that  die  in  our  woods  and  fields. 

Beneath  that  clump  of  yarrow  I  found  just  what  I  had  expected — a 
small  dead  bird — and  the  grave-diggers  were  in  the  midst  of  their  work. 
Already  the  rampart  of  fresh  earth  was  raised  around  the  body,  and  the 
cavity  was  growing  deeper  with  every  moment,  as  the  busy  diggers 
excavated  the  turf  beneath. 

Now  and  then  one  would  emerge  on  a  tour  of  inspection,  even  rum 
maging  among  the  feathers  of  that  silent  throat,  and  climbing  upon  the 
plumy  breast  to  press  down  the  little  body  into  the  deepening  grave. 

These -nature  burials  are  by  no  means  rare,  and  where  the  listless 
eye  fails  to  discover  them  the  nostril  will  often  indicate  the  way,  and 
to  any  one  desirous  of  witnessing  the  operation,  without  the  trouble  of 
search,  it  is  only  necessary  to  place  in  a  convenient  spot  of  loose 
earth  the  carcass  of  some  small  animal.  The  most  casual  observer 
could  hardly  fail  to  be  attracted  by  the  orange-spotted  beetles  which 
soon  will  be  seen  to  hover  about  it.  Entomologists  assert  that  these 
insects  are  attracted  by  the  odor  of  decay;  but  from  my  own  humble 
investigations  I  have  never  been  able  to  fully  reconcile  myself  to  this 
theory. 

Whatever  the  disputed  nature  of  odors — whether  an  influence  exerted 
by  organic  atoms  carried  in  the  air,  or  through  some  system  of  mys 
terious  vibration,  I  believe  is  a  problem  yet  unsolved ;  but  whatever  its 
subtle  character,  it  is  entirely  under  the  control  of  the  wind,  and  is  not 
known  to  travel  against  the  breeze.  Yet  I  have  repeatedly  seen  these 
beetles  approach  directly  from  the  windward,  and  drop  upon  their  prey 
as  though  it  were  an  irresistible  magnet  hidden  in  the  herbage. 

The  specific  conception  of  a  sixth  sense  is  beyond  the  full  grasp  of 
the  human  mind.  What  it  should  be,  to  what  purpose  employed,  is  a 
theme  for  wide  speculation ;  but  certain  it  is  that,  arguing  solely  from 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS. 


135 


the  basis  of  our  own  endowments,  we  are 
often   confronted  with  problems    whose       rv 
solution  would  almost  seem  impossible 
excepting  through  admitted  existence 
of  a   sixth  faculty  of  sense.      These 
mystical    manifestations    are    usually 
classified     under    the    general 
term  "  instinct " — a  most  con 
venient  refuge  for  man's  in 
capacity  and  ignorance. 


If  it  were    the    ques 
tion  of  odor  alone 


in    this   dead   bird,  for 
instance,    it    would    be 
difficult   to   explain    the   bee-line 
flight  of  these  humming  beetles, 
two  of  which  came  swift- 
toward  me  even  from 
the    direction    of    the 
wind,  and  drop- 


m   THE   SCENT. 


I36 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


ped  quickly  upon  these  feathers  hidden  from  sight  among  the  grass. 
Perhaps  in  such  an  instance  we  might  imagine  that  they  had  been  there 
before  and  knew  the  way ;  that  they  had  noted  this  clump  of  yarrow, 
maybe ;  but  I  have  observed  the  fact  before  when  there  was  every  reason 
to  believe  that  no  such  previous  visit  had  been  made. 

I  am  always  glad  of  the  opportunity  to  watch  the  progress  of  these 
meadow  burials.     And  had  you  accompanied  me  on  that  morning  walk 
you  would  have  looked  with  interest  at  those   little   undertakers — seen 
that  feathery  body  toss  and  heave  with  strange  mock 
ery  of  life  as  the  busy  sextons  worked  beneath,  dig 
ging    with    their    spiked    thighs,  shovelling    out    the 
loose  earth  with  their  broad  heads,  and  pulling  down 
the   body  into    the    deepened   cavity.      You   would 
.„          have  been  startled  too,  perhaps,  at  that  bee-like 
buzzing  rover  the  "  the  devil's-coach- 
horse"  that    alighted    near,  with 
its  lively  wriggling   tail 
in     mid -air,    and     you 
would   have    smiled,  as 
I  did,  to  see  the  comi- 
(      cal  alacrity  with  which 
he    tilted    forward    the 
tip    of    that    tail,    and 
therewith  tucked  his  filmy 
wings  beneath  their  diminutive 
covers,  sniffing  the  while  for  that 
same  hidden  prey  among  the  grass. 
THE  "POOR  BEETLE."  The  use  of  the  tails^of  animals 

has  been  a  subject  of  much  conject 
ure  '  among  naturalists ;  but  any  one  who  will  take  the  pains  to  watch 
the  wriggling  extremity  of  the  staphylinus,  as  that  insect  alights  from 
flight,  will  conclude  that,  in  this  case  at  least,  it  serves  a  distinct  purpose 
and  a  most  important  function ;  for  without  its  aid  those  extended  wings 
could  never  regain  their  original  shelter.  You  will  have  to  look  quickly 
too,  for,  although  requiring  several  distinct  processes  of  folding,  the  act 
is  performed  so  dexterously  as  almost  to  elude  detection. 

Both  these  insects  feed  on,  and  deposit  their  eggs  in,  carrion  ;    and 
while  the  "  devil's-coach-horse  "  is  not  known  to  assist  in  the  digging  of 


AMONG     OUR    FOOTPRINTS.  137 

the  grave,  he  is  generally  nosing  around,  I  notice  —  perhaps  to  enliven 
the  dismal  proceeding  by  an  air  of  frisky  cheerfulness  and  comicality. 

The  process  of  burial  is  swift  or  slow,  depending  on  the  size  of  the 
dead  body,  the  number  of  beetles,  and  the  character  of  the  soil.  Ordi 
narily  a  small  bird  or  mouse  is  sunk  several  inches  in  the  ground  and 
covered  with  earth  during  the  space  of  twenty-four  hours.  The  female 
beetle  often  conceals  herself  within  the  carcass,  with  which  she  is  in 
humed,  finally  emerging  after  having  deposited  therein  a  number  of  eggs, 
gauged  in  number  to  the  proportions  of  the  buried  carcass.  These  soon 
hatch  into  voracious  larvae,  which  devour  every  particle  of  decay,  appear 
ing  as  perfect  beetles  in  the  spring,  leaving  nothing  in  the  ground  but 
a  clean,  white  skeleton,  whose  grave  is  soon  marked  in  the  meadow  by 
a  tuft  of  fresh  green  grass. 

There    is    still    another    beetle 
which   is   commonly  met  with   in 
our  rambles.      It  is  of  all  oth 
ers  "  the   poor  beetle    that  we 
tread  upon ;"  for  while   many 
ground  beetles   are  nimble 
of    wing    and    limb,    and 
easily  elude  our  vigilance, 
this     floundering     individual,  J^ 

known  as  the  meloe,  is   not  only  UNDER  THE  GLASS- 

wingless  but  fat  and  helpless  as  a  baby. 

In  their  proper  season  it  is  rarely  that  I  do  not  discover  several  ~bf 
these  wingless,  helpless  beetles  during  the  course  of  my  walks.  And 
here,  among  the  buttercups  and  beaten  grasses  of  these  footprints,  I 
found  a  pair  of  them,  one  of  which  lay  crushed  by  a  careless  step,  while 
the  other,  with  a  sort  of  pathetic  helplessness,  moved  about  its  dead 
mate,  caressing  it  with  its  antennae,  and  endeavoring  by  many  tender 
efforts  to  coax  it  back  to  life.  I  picked  up  the  uninjured  specimen,  and 
dropped  it  into  my  insect-bottle  to  carry  home. 

In  color  the  meloe  is  of  a  deep  indigo-blue,  rotund  in  form — indeed, 
facetiously  suggesting  a  small  bluing -bag.  When  touched  it  exudes 
from  every  joint  a  yellowish  liquid,  from  which  habit  it  is  commonly 
known  as  the  "  oil-beetle,"  and  by  which  it  will  be  readily  recognized. 

Clumsy  and  unattractive  as  this  beetle  is,  it  is  nevertheless  much 
more  interesting  than  one  would  imagine;  and  when,  on  my  return 


138  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

home,  I  took  the  insect  out  of  the  bottle,  and  was  enabled  to  relate  its 
curious  life -history,  it  was  gratifying  at  least  to  hear  one  appreciative 
listener  admit  that  "  that  bug's  young  uns  were  putty  smart." 

And  he  was  not  mistaken.  Briefly  told,  the  history  of  this  common 
blue  beetle  is  as  follows:  It  feeds  upon  the  leaves  of  buttercups,  on  the 
ground  beneath  which  the  female  deposits  her  eggs,  several  hundred  in 
number.  These  hatch  into  minute  but  surprisingly  active  larvae,  scarcely 
larger  than  the  hyphen  of  this  page.  They  immediately  crawl  up  the 
stems  of  neighboring  plants  and  nestle  among  the  blossoms — one  of  the 
many  "  mysteries  that  cups  of  flowers  enfold."  I  have  seen  large  num 
bers  of  them  in  a  single  buttercup. 

Beneath  the  magnifying-glass  this  tiny  creature  is  seen  to  possess 
six  long,  spider -like  legs.  They  are  given  to  the  grub  only  at  this 
early  stage  of  its  existence,  and  for  a  special  and  remarkable  purpose. 
It  is  not  in  quest  of  honey  that  this  atom  seeks  the  blossom,  but  merely 
as  its  lair,  in  which  to  lie  in  wait  for  its  victim.  Presently  it  comes, 
in  the  shape  of  a  bee  that  alights  upon  the  flower.  In  an  instant  the 
agile  meloe  jumps  upon  the  body  of  the  intruder,  which  it  clutches 
tightly  with  those  six  clasping  legs.  Thus  clinging,  it  is  carried  into 
the  hive ;  and  when  the  bee  reaches  its  cell  the  meloe  releases  its  hold 
and  creeps  into  its  new  home,  where  it  finds  the  plump  white  bee-grub 
a  ready  breakfast.  By  the  time  the  young  bee  is  devoured  the  meloe 
casts  its  skin,  and  assumes  the  form  common  to  the  larvae  of  many 
beetles,  the  long  legs  having  disappeared.  Thenceforth  the  insect  feeds 
upon  the  bee-bread  stored  by  its  duped  foster-mother,  until,  when  fully 
grown,  it  passes  into  the  pupa  stage,  and  soon  re-appears  as  that  guile 
less  innocent  tumbling  in  our  foot-path. 

There  has  always  been  to  me  a  strange  fascination  in  that  great 
wing  chorus  which  goes  up  from  those  myriads  of  sounding  timbrels 
among  our  grassy  fields  and  sedgy  marshes — that  endless,  palpitating 
chord  of  teeming  life  which  seems  to  stir  the  very  air  in  tremulous 
waves  as  it  rises,  quivering,  above  the  grass-tips.  What  a  dizzy  tangle 
of  sounds  !  There  is  the  high,  shrilling  note  of  the  black  cricket  down 
among  the  roots,  and  now  the  "  zip -zip -zee"  of  those  brown  striped 
grasshoppers,  with  their  fragile  glass  thighs  and  leaf-like  wings  of  gauzy 
green.  There  is  the  ever-present  undertone  of  the  orchestra  of  locusts 
tuning  their  legion  of  tiny  fiddles,  while  swarms  of  slender  katydids 
creep  and  sing  among  the  dancing  grass-blades. 


AMONG     OUR    FOOTPRINTS. 


139 


It  is  always   a  joyous  pastoral  symphony 
to  my  ears;  but  I  half  suspect  that, 
were     those    members     sufficiently 
keen,  they  might  discern  in  all  that 
babel    many    a    cry    of   terror    and 
wail   of  agony;    for    if  "the    poor 
beetle    that   we    tread   upon 
pjp       in  corporal  sufferance  feels 
a  pang  as  great  as  when  a 
giant  dies,"  then  these  grassy 
jungles   hide   many  a  cruel 
tragedy,   and    this    singing 
field  is  but  one  vast  arena. 
The  savage  spiders  kill  their 
thousands  every  hour;  the  man 
gled   victims   of  the   wasps    and 
hornets     sprinkle     the     ground. 
Low    down    among    the    shadows 


THE   INSECT    TIGER. 


j$^j^rm 

you  might  discover 

a  fitting  emblem  —  the 

little   spotted -spurge,  lying 

prostrate,  with   its  stain   of  blood   on   every  leaf.      You   may  chance   to 

hear  a  single  plaintive   trill  from   some   tiny  climbing-cricket   near.      It 

is  a  cadence  that  has  no  place  in  all  this  din,  for  he  is  a  pale  creature 

of  the  twilight,  and  lifts  his  voice  only  in  the  darkness.     It  was  not  a 


140 


HIGHWAYS    AND     BYWAYS. 


song,  but  a  cry  of  terror  at  some  green-eyed  monster  of  a  dragon-fly 
that  had  peered  in  and  surprised  him  in  that  cosy  hiding-place  among 
the  blossoms. 

Even  as  I  looked  across  this  Conway  meadow  my  attention  was 
arrested  by  an  unnatural  motion  of  the  leaves  of  a  milk-weed  near,  and 
on  closer  scrutiny  I  saw  a  large  black  beetle  creeping  slyly  up  the  stem 
and  out  upon  a  leaf,  where  an  Archippus  caterpillar  was  feeding.  In 
another  instant  the  caterpillar  was  writhing  on  the  ground  with  a  mortal 
wound,  while  its  murderer  dropped  pell-mell  from  leaf  to  leaf  in  eager 
ness  to  finish  its  deadly  work.  This  was  the  fierce  carnivorous  beetle, 
one  of  the  "tigers"  of  the  insect  world,  a  glossy  black  creature,  with 
gilt  spots  like  golden  nails  in  his  coat  of  armor. 

I  witnessed  another  long  but  unequal  battle  on  that  morning  be 
tween  a  large  Mutilla  ant  and  an  ungainly  grasshopper.  The  conflict 
lasted  fully  five  minutes,  until  the  grasshopper  felt  the  fangs  of  the 

Mutilla    at    the    nape    of    the    neck, 

when   he   readily  succumbed. 
Uf* 

=*.  • 


AN    UNGAINLY    VICTIM. 


With  such  savage  murderers  forever  prowl 
ing  among  the  shadows,  with  the  nets  of  the  spider  spread  on  every 
hand,  and  hungry  toads  and  snakes  with  their  prying  eyes  seeking  out 
every  nook  and  cranny,  it  would  seem  that  life  among  our  singing 
meadows  were  anything  but  a  round  of  pleasure.  While  "for  our 
gayer  hours  Nature  has  a  voice  of  gladness  and  a  smile,"  here  we  look 
upon  her  joyless  face  —  an  expression  grim  and  mysterious  as  the  silent 
Sphinx.  But  to  the  devout  listener  at  those  lips  there  have  been  re 
vealed  occasional  whispers  ;  and  while  to  him  who  reads  the  book  of 


AMONG     OUR    FOOTPRINTS. 

Nature  as  he  runs  it  verily  would  seem  as  though  the  mark  of  Cain 
appeared  on  every  page,  science  tells  us  —  and  observation  lends  its 
verity — that  this  wholesale  slaughter,  not  only  among  the  insect  tribes, 
but  throughout  all  animated  nature,  is  but  the  wise  ultimatum  destined 
for  the  preservation  of  him  who  bears  "the  image  of  his  Maker;"  that 
these  professional  murderers  are  but  Nature's  potent  allies  in  her  great 
vital  scheme  of  universal  equilibrium — harmony  born  of  discord. 

"In  the  brake  how  fierce 
The  war  of  weak  and  strong  !    i'  th'  air  what  plots  !" 

Not  even  the  fluttering  butterfly  is  safe,  but  is  pounced  upon  in  mid-air 
by  the  great  sand-hornet,  its  wings  torn  off  in  mockery,  and,  thus  shorn 
of  its  glory,  is  lugged  off  to  some  dark  hole  in  the  ground ;  and  the  bee 
returning  to  its  hive  is  waylaid  on  the  wing,  its  body  torn  open  by  this 
armed  mignon,  whose  progeny  would  seem  to  have  held  in  perpetuity 
the  death-warrant  from  Queen  Titania — 

"The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humblebees, 
And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs." 

This  sand-hornet  is  the  greatest  villain  that  flies  on  insect  wings,  and 
he  is  built  for  a  professional  murderer.  He  carries  two  keen  cimeters 
besides  a  deadly  poisoned  poniard,  and  is  mailed  throughout  with  in 
vulnerable  armor.  He  has  things  all  his  own  way ;  he  lives  a  life  of 
tyranny,  and  feeds  on  blood.  There  are  few  birds — none  that  I  know 
of  —  that  care  to  swallow  such  a  red-hot  morsel.  It  is  said  that  not 
even  the  butcher-bird  hankers  after  him.  The  toad  will  not  touch 
him,  seeming  to  know  by  instinct  what  sort  of  chain-lightning  he  con 
tains.  Among  insects  this  hornet  has  been  called  the  "  harpy  eagle," 
and  nearly  all  of  them  are  at  his  mercy.  Even  the  cicada,  or  drum 
ming  harvest -fly,  an  insect  often  larger  and  heavier  than  himself,  is 
his  very  common  victim.  Some  one  with  a  grievance  and  a  poetical 
bent  has  been  known  to  sigh, 

"  Happy  the  cicadas'  lives, 
Since  they  all  have  noiseless  wives." 

But  it  were  not  well  to  trust  too  implicitly  this  ideal  picture  of  domestic 
bliss,  this  "  consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished ;"  for  in  the  monopoly 
of  this  precious  prerogative  the  "  happy "  head  of  the  house  often  sounds 


142 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


his  own  death-knell,  and  pays  the  penalty  with  his  -head.     The  fangs  of 
the  destroyer  cut  short  his   tirade,  and  he  is  hurried   off  the  scene  to 
repent  his   folly   in    a   dungeon,  where  he 
expires  by  degrees — a  piecemeal  offering 
to  the  progeny  of  his  murderer. 

Considering  these  savage  character 
istics  of  the  hornet,  it  was  of  especial 
interest  to  witness   such  an   inci 
dent  as   I  have   here 
pictured,  where 
one  of  these 


huge   tyrants    was 
actually  captured   and 
overpowered  by  the  strat 
egy  and  combined  efforts  of  three  black  ants. 

\ 

I  had  left  the  meadow,  and  was   ascending 

a  spur  of  the  mountain  by  the  edge  of  a  pine  wood,  when  suddenly  I 
espied  the  hornet  in  question  almost  at  my  feet.  He  immediately  took 
wing,  and  as  he  flew  on  ahead  of  me  I  observed  a  long  pendent  object 
dangling  from  his  body.  The  encumbrance  proved  too  great  an  obstacle 
for  continuous  flight,  and  he  soon  again  dropped  upon  the  path,  a  rod 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  143 

or  so  in  advance  of  me.  I  overtook  him,  and  on  a  close  inspection  dis 
covered  a  plucky  black  ant  clutching  tightly  with  its  teeth  upon  the 
hind-foot  of  its  captive,  while  with  its  two  hind-legs  it  clung  desperately 
to  a  long  cluster  of  pine-needles  which  it  carried  as  a  dead-weight.  No 
sooner  did  the  hornet  touch  the  ground  than  the  ant  began  to  tug  and 
yell  for  help.  There  were  certainly  evidences  to  warrant  such  a  belief, 
for  a  second  ant  immediately  appeared  upon  the  scene,  emerging  hur 
riedly  from  a  neighboring  thicket  of  pine-tree  moss.  He  was  too  late, 
however,  for  the  hornet  again  sought  escape  in  flight.  But  this  attempt 
was  even  more  futile  than  the  former,  for  his  plucky  little  assailant 
had  now  laid  hold  of  another  impediment,  and  this  time  not  only  the 
long  pine-needles  but  a  small  branched  stick  also  was  seen  swinging 
through  the  air.  Only  a  yard  or  so  was  covered  in  this  flight;  and  as 
the  ant  still  yelled  for  re-enforcements,  its  companion  again  appeared, 
and  rushed  upon  the  common  foe  with  such  furious  zeal  that  I  felt 
like  patting  him  on  the  back.  The  whole  significance  of  the  scene  he 
had  taken  in  at  a  glance,  and  in  an  instant  he  too  had  secured  a  vise- 
like  grip  upon  the  other  hind-leg.  Now  came  the  final  tug  of  war. 
The  hornet  tried  to  rise,  but  this  second  passenger  was  too  much  for 
him ;  he  could  only  buzz  along  the  ground,  dragging  his  load  after  him, 
while  his  new  assailant  clutched  desperately  at  everything  within  its 
reach — now  a  dried  leaf,  now  a  tiny  stone,  and  even  overturning  an 
acorn  cup  in  its  grasp.  Finally  a  small  rough  stick  was  secured,  and 
this  proved  the  "  last  straw."  In  vain  were  the  struggles  to  escape. 
The  captive  could  scarcely  lift  his  body  from  the  ground.  He  rolled 
and  kicked  and  tumbled,  but  to  no  purpose,  except  to  make  it  very 
lively  for  his  captors ;  and  the  thrusts  of  that  lively  dagger  were  wasted 
on  the  desert  air,  for,  whether  or  not  those  ants  knew  its  searching  pro 
pensities,  they  certainly  managed  to  keep  clear  of  this  busy  extremity. 

How  long  this  pell-mell  battle  would  have  lasted  I  know  not,  for  a 
third  ant  now  appeared,  and  it  was  astonishing  to  see  how  with  every 
movement  of  the  hornet  this  third  assailant  would  lay  hold  upon  some 
convenient  stick,  and  at  the  same  time  clutch  upon  those  pine-needles- 
still  held  by  the  original  captor — to  add  thereto  the  burden  of  its  own 
weighted  body. 

Practically  the  ants  had  won  the  victory,  but  what  they  intended  to 
do  with  the  floundering  elephant  in  their  hands  seemed  a  problem.  But 
to  them  it  was  only  a  question  of  patience.  They  had  now  pinned  their 


144 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


victim  securely,  and  held  him  to  await  assistance.  It  came.  The  entire 
neighborhood  had  been  apprised  of  the  battle,  and  in  less  than  five  min 
utes  the  ground  swarmed  with  an  army  of  re-enforcements.  They  came 
from  all  directions ;  they  pitched  upon  that  hornet  with  terrible  feroc 
ity,  and  his  complete  destruction  was  now 
only  a  question  of  moments.  I  experi 
enced  a  sort  of  malevolent  delight  at  such 
a  fitting  expiation  for  a  life  of  rapine  and 
murder.  Already  a  dozen  pairs  of  teeth 
were  working  at  the  joints  of  his  wings, 
and  those  members  had  soon  been  severed 
from  the  body  had  I  left  him  to  his  fate ; 
but  there  was  a  problem  of  engineer 
ing  skill  connected  with  his  capture 
which  I  wished  to  solve,  and  I  con 
cluded  to  come  to  his  rescue,  and 


STRATEGY  VERSUS  STRENGTH. 


even  spare  his  life  if  need  be,  in  an  interesting  experiment.  I  therefore 
dislodged  all  the  ants  excepting  the  two  original  assailants.  The  over 
whelming  attack  upon  the  hornet  had  made  him  furious,  but  these  pug 
nacious  little  fellows  were  even  now  more  than  his  match,  and  still  held 
him  as  before.  No  sooner,  however,  did  I  remove  from  their  grasp  those 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  145 

extra  weights  of  sticks  and  pine-needles  than  their  victim  took  wing, 
and  was  soon  out  of  sight.  But  he  still  carried  his  doom  in  his  flight 
in  these  two  mischievous  passengers,  still  bent  on  his  destruction ;  and 
my  conviction  is  firm  that  they  were  even  yet  his  executioners. 

Verily,  it  is  sometimes  pleasant  to  imagine  one's  self  a  sluggard 
and  seek  the  ant  for  wisdom.  Time  spent  in  the  study  of  these  saga 
cious  little  creatures  is  never  lost.  Books  have  been  filled  to  the  glory 
of  their  industry,  wisdom,  and  intelligence ;  and  one  is  almost  led  to  con 
template  with  envy  the  record  of  discovery  among  the  absorbing  pages 
of  Huber,  and,  later,  the  researches  of  Sir  John  Lubbock,  the  illustrious 
historians  of  this  wonderful  little  people.  Huber  it  was  who  made  the 
astounding  disclosure  that  ants  keep  slaves ;  that  a  certain  species  of  red- 
ant,  uniting  in  an  army  of  invasion,  is  wont  to  take  by  storm  the  city 
of  a  weaker  species,  devastating  their  homes,  and  often  carrying  off  by 
main  force  the  entire  population,  all  of  which,  as  prisoners  of  war,  are 
removed  without  bodily  harm  to  the  subterranean  city  of  the  enemy, 
where  they  are  reared  in  menial  servitude. 

The  problem  of  the  ant's  strange  visits  to  the  aphides,  or  plant-lice — 
that  curious  exhibition  which  any  one  may  witness  in  a  half-hour's  walk 
in  the  country  —  was  first  solved  by  the  researches  of  Huber,  in  whose 
works  we  read  the  remarkable  discovery  which  so  startled  the  scientific 
world :  that  the  aphides  seem  especially  provided  by  Nature  as  the  milch 
cows  for  the  ants,  yielding  to  them  a  sweet  secretion,  called  honey-dew, 
of  which  they  are  very  fond ;  that  this  honey-dew  is  not  only  sought 
and  obtained  from  the  aphides  in  their  native  haunts,  but  that  the  little 
creatures  are  actually  transported  bodily  and  tenderly  borne  away  into 
the  subterranean  apartments  of  the  ants,  placed  in  diminutive  cattle-pens 
constructed  for  the  purpose,  and  thus  fed,  reared,  and  domesticated. 

To  many  these  facts  will  present  nothing  new;  but  to  such  they  will 
at  least  serve  to  freshen  the  memory  in  the  appreciation  of  a  useful  and 
industrious  class  of  our  community,  who  are  too  little  considered,  too 
often  forgotten,  until  their  demonstrations  at  some  rural  picnic  only  serve 
to  bring  them  into  further  disrepute  and  hasten  their  untimely  end.  Of 
all  the  animated  life  that  we  tread  beneath  our  feet  the  ant  is  the  most 
inconspicuous  and  omnipresent.  In  no  creature  on  the  globe  is  there 
such  a  disproportion  in  comparative  size  and  intellect.  These  diminu 
tive,  well-rounded  heads  do  a  deal  of  tall  thinking,  and  there  is  much  yet 
to  be  learned  of  the  mysteries  concealed  beneath  the  ant-hill. 


146 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


BIRD-NEST   FUNGUS. 


If  there  is  any  one  class  of  natural  objects  which  is  more  than  any 
other  especially  ignored  by  nearly  all  "walkers"  and  nature-students  gen 
erally,  it  is   the   wonderful   tribe    of 
cryptogamous     plants     known     as 
fungi — the  great  family  of   toad 
stools,    mushrooms,    moulds,    and 
mildews  —  forms     of     vegetation 
which  present  some   of  the   most 
inexplicable   and  mysterious  phe 
nomena  to  be  found  in  the  whole 
vegetable  kingdom. 

A  gentleman  well  known  to 
scientists  *  as  an  authority  on  the 
subject  of  American  fungi,  and 
whom  I  count  it  an  honor  to  call 
my  friend,  recently  almost  took  my 
breath  away  as  he  told  me,  in  com 
pany  with  several  other  friends  eagerly  assembled  about  his  microscope, 
that  the  myriads  of  beautiful  spores  which  we  observed  in  that  bright 
field  of  his  objective  actually  did  not  cover  a  space  much  larger  than 
the  diameter  of  a  needle.  "  And  yet,"  continued  he,  "  each  individual  of 
them  is  capable,  under  favorable  conditions, 
of  reproducing  a  cluster  of  these  puff- 
balls  which  I  hold  in  my  hand.  It  is 
fortunate  for  us  that  the  fastidious 
ness  of  this  plant  allows  it  to  veg 
etate  only  upon  dead  wood ;  for 
otherwise  there  are  enough 
of  those  spores  contained  in 
this  one  specimen,  were  each 
to  germinate  and  mature,  to 
crowd  the  whole  surface  of  the 
United  States,  and  this  cluster  could 
easily  be  the  means  of  covering  the 
entire  globe."  Whether  considered  as 

figurative  or  not,  the  reproductive  possibilities  of  these  plants  are  some 
thing  almost  beyond  computation.  There  is  further  light  thrown  upon 
this  subject  by  Fries,  the  eminent  fungologist,  who  says  of  a  plant 


FAIRY    PARASOLS. 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  147 

closely  allied  to  the  above  specimen :  "  The  sporules  are  infinite,  for  in 
a  single  individual  of  Reticularia  maxima  I  have  reckoned  ten  millions, 
so  subtile  as  to  resemble  thin  smoke,  as  light  as  if  raised  by  evapora 
tion,  and  dispersed  in  so  many  ways  that  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  the 
spots  from  which  they  could  be  excluded." 

When  it  is  known  that  a  single  one  of  these  plants  will  cover  an 
area  of  seven  square  inches,  and,  moreover,  that  a  single  spore  will  often 
reproduce  a  whole  cluster  of  the  same,  it  becomes  a  simple  matter  to 
compute  the  enormity  of  the  resultant  area.  It  is  a  genuine  treat  to 
walk  the  woods  and  fields  with  a  companion  versed  in  the  science  of 
fungology.  A  new  page  of  Nature's  wondrous  history  is  turned  with 
every  step,  and  an  infinity  seems  to  open  up  from  every  heap  of  rubbish 
and  every  unsightly  clod.  The  damp  woods  are  especially  rich  in  forms 
of  fungous  growth.  They  offer  a  limitless  museum  of  these  strange  and 
beautiful  curiosities  of  vegetable  life.  Here  are  tiny  bird-nests  filled 
with  eggs  clustering  upon  a  lump  of  leaf-mould,  or  crowding  upon  this 
dried  stick  that  snaps  beneath  your  heel.  Fragile  fairy  parasols  lift  their 
slender  forms  above  the  dried  leaf.  You  have  crushed  hundreds  of  them 
in  your  path.  Sometimes  as  many  as  twenty  will  be  seen  growing  upon 
a  single  leaf,  long  since  too  far  gone  to  need  their  shelter.  Perhaps  you 
will  chance  upon  a  beautiful  drooping  hydnum,  with  its  crowded  creamy 
fringe  hanging  from  the  prostrate  beech-trunk;  but  you  would  not  leave 
this  tender  growth  to  decay  in  the  woods  if  you  knew  it  for  the  dainty 
morsel  it  actually  is.  The  whole  tribe  of  mushrooms  yields  few  such 
delicacies.  The  little  barometer,  the  "  earth  -  star,"  will  send  forth  its 
cloud  of  dust  as  you  pass  to  warn  you  of  that  coming  storm,  or,  if  the 
day  should  happen  to  be  clear  and  dry,  will  clasp  its  pointed  fingers 
protectingly  about  its  little  puff-ball.  Near  by  a  heavy  stone  is  lifting 
up  among  the  matted  carpet  of  pine-needles,  while  from  beneath  its  edge 
a  great  red -faced  mushroom  protrudes  its  head  to  tell  of  its  struggle 
through  the  mould. 

As  you  sit  upon  the  mossy  log  a  bright  orange  bit  of  color  at  your 
side  arrests  your  attention.  It  proves  to  be  a  small  toadstool,  and  as 
you  pull  it  from  its  bed  you  lift  upon  its  root — a  lump  of  leaf  mould  ? 
No,  a  large  brown  chrysalis,  through  whose  shell  those  fibrous  roots 
have  penetrated,  drawing  their  sustenance  from  the  imprisoned  moth 
still  seen  within.  Neither  is  this  a  chance  freak  of  Nature,  but  rather 
an  illustration  of  one  of  the  eccentricities  of  this  class  of  plants.  This 


148 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


is  a  distinct  variety  of  fungus,  whose  spores  will  germinate  only  upon  a 
chrysalis  or  caterpillar;  and  it  is  believed,  moreover,  that  it  is  confined 
to  a  single  species  of  insect. 

These  are  not  rare  or  iso- 
lated    instances,  but    such    as 
any  one  may  discover  who  would 
reap  "  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye." 
I  have  selected  them 
at    random    from 
my    own    experi 
ence,  and  they  are 
only   a   few   of  many 
which  I  have  memorized 
by  careful  colored 
drawings  from 
the    original 
specimens.- 


I   might  say   that 
almost    every    species    of 
plant    has    a   fungus    peculiarly 
its  own.      The  foliage  of  our  deli 
cate  lance-leaved  golden-rod  has  two 
such  parasites,  while  the  lilac,  alder,  ash, 
beech,  etc.,  are    also  known   to   be    thus    affected — to  the    ordinary   eye 


DICENTRA. 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  149 

appearing  as  a  bloom  or  coat  of  dust,  but  beneath  the  lens  assuming 
widely  different  and  specific  forms.  Here  is  an  old  dried  chestnut 
burr  picked  up  at  a  venture.  Search  it  a  moment,  and  you  will  find  its 
spines  covered  with  small  white  mushrooms.  These  are  known  to  the 
dead  chestnut  burr  alone,  as  they  never  vegetate  on  any  other  substance. 

There  is  often  an  almost  inexhaustible  field  for  botanic  investigation 
even  on  a  single  fallen  tree.  My  scientific  friend  already  alluded  to 
recently  informed  me,  on  his  return  from  an  exploring  tour,  that  he  had 
spent  two  days  most  delightfully  and  profitably  in  the  study  of  the  yield 
of  a  single  dead  tree,  and  had  surprised  himself  by  a  discovery  by  actual 
count  of  over  a  hundred  distinct  species  of  plants  congregated  upon  it. 
Plumy  dicentra  clustered  along  its  length,  graceful  sprays  of  the  frost- 
flower,  with  its  little  spire  of  snow  crystals,  rose  up  here  and  there, 
scarlet  berries  of  the  Indian  turnip  glowed  among  the  leaves,  and,  with 
the  crowding  beds  of  lycopodiums  and  mosses,  its  ferns  and  lichens,  and 
host  of  fungous  growths,  it  became  an  easy  matter  to  extend  the  list  of 
species  into  the  second  hundred.  It  is  something  worth  remembering 
the  next  time  we  go  into  the  woods. 

Apropos  of  the  subject  of  fungi  I  am  reminded  of  a  singular  incident 
related  to  me  by  the  late  Professor  Wood,  the  botanist.  He  had  re 
ceived  from  a  bee-keeper  in  California,  together  with  a  most  appealing 
letter,  a  small  box  of  dead  bees,  all  of  which  were  heavily  laden  with  a 
thick  covering  of  very  small  paddle -shaped  substances  of  a  brownish 
color.  The  accompanying  letter  stated  that  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  the  writer's  bees  had  been  attacked  and  were  dying  from  this  strange 
disease.  He  supposed  it  to  be  a  kind  of  fungus,  but  nobody  could  ex 
plain  its  nature  or  suggest  a  cure.  His  business  was  threatened  with 
ruin,  and  in  his  extremity  he  appealed  to  professional  skill  for  a 
remedy. 

Mr.  Wood  was  not  long  in  ascertaining  the  cause  of  the  trouble. 
A  small  magnifier  revealed  the  fact  that  the  so-called  fungus  was  noth 
ing  more  than  the  sticky  pollen  of  a  certain  milk-weed.  He  wrote 
immediately  to  his  correspondent  stating  his  discovery,  told  him  to 
search  the  country  for  several  miles  in  his  neighborhood,  and  he  would 
somewhere  surely  discover  a  large  tract  of  this  mischievous  Asclepias. 
In  about  a  fortnight  he  received  another  letter,  confirming  his  theory. 
The  plants  abounded  in  the  locality,  and  had  been  cut  down  and  burned, 
after  which  the  trouble  had  ceased. 


150  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

i 

This  peculiarity  of  the  milk-weed  is  common  to  the  genus,  and  it  is 
not  a  rare  thing  to  find  floundering  among  the  blossoms  of  our  ordinary 
species  a  honey-bee  or  bumblebee  encumbered  as  seen  in  our  illustra 
tion,  "A  Victim  of  Greed,"  which  in  its  embarrassed  condition  has  be 
come  an  easy  prey  to  a  swarm  of  ants.  This  figure  was  drawn  from  a 
specimen  now  in  my  possession.  The  insect  was  one  of  several  recently 
found  upon  a  plant  of  our  common  Asclepias.  Other  specimens  were  a 
yellow-jacket,  several  honey-bees,  and  a  beautiful  Cetonia  beetle,  whose 
brilliant  shining  body  and  smooth  legs  had  escaped,  but  whose  toes  were 
tufted  with  little  brushes,  or  pompons,  of  the  pollen  masses. 


A    VICTIM    OF    GREED. 


The  pollen  of  most  plants  exists  in  the  form  of  the  well-known  yellow 
powder,  and  is  dusted  freely  from  the  opening  anthers.  But  the  milk 
weed  presents  quite  a  novel  arrangement.  Like  the  wonderful  tribe  of 
orchids,  as  well  as  a  long  list  of  other  plants,  the  Asclepias  is  entirely 
dependent  upon  the  aid  of  insects  not  only  for  its  fertilization,  but  for 
the  shedding  of  its  pollen.  Any  one  who  will  carefully  examine  its 
flower  will  discover  the  five  little  cups,  like  minute  cornucopias,  sur 
rounding  its  central  column.  These  are  the  nectaries,  containing  the 
sweets  so  attractive  to  the  insects ;  and  it  is  amusing  to  watch  the 
eager  antics  of  the  bumblebee  as  he  follows  around  the  circle,  thrusting 
his  long  black  tongue  deep  into  each  sac.  If  you  now  observe  still 
closer,  you  will  see  how  Nature  utilizes  the  insect  in  the  propagation 
of  those  fuzzy  seed-clouds. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  refer  to  the  fact  that  in  order  for  a  plant 
to  set  seed  it  is  necessary  that  the  stigma  of  the  flower  shall  be  dusted 
with  the  pollen.  We  see  it  naturally  performed  in  many  blossoms,  but 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS. 


in  the  milk-weed  such  a  spontaneous  process  is  impossible,  for  the  pollen 
is  concealed  in  a  pouch,  from  which  it  never  would  escape  unless  with 
drawn   by   some  external  force.      Instead  of 
the    ordinary    powder,   the    pollen    is    here 
gathered  into  oblong  clusters.     They  are 
arranged    in    pairs,   five    in    number,  sur 
rounding  and  embedded  in  the  central  col 
umn.      The  point  of  union  of  each  couple  is 
at  the   top,  where    they    are    provided  with 
two    glutinous    disks,  which    there    lie    in 
wait  for  their  deliverer.      No  sooner 
does    the   foot,  or   leg,  or  body,  or 
even   a  hair,  of  this   bee   we  are 
watching  come  in   contact 
with    these    little 
disks     than     they 
clasp   upon   it,  and 
are  pulled  from  their 
hiding-places.     They 
thus  accumulate, 
and  are  drag 
ged  about 
by  the  in- 


COMPANIONS. 


sect,  and  carried  from  flower  to  flower,  each 
of  which  becomes  cross-fertilized  by  thus  hav 
ing  its  stigma  at  the  upper  part  of  the  blossom 
brought  into  contact  with  the  pollen.  We  may, 
therefore,  thank  the  bees  and  hornets  for  those  silky 
pods  that  glisten  on  our  September  roadsides. 
Remarkable  as  is  the  structure  of  the  milk-weed  blossom,  it  is  sur 
passed  in  interest  by  the  wondrous  mechanism  found  among  the  orchids. 
Here  is  a  family  of  plants  numbering  some  thousands  of  known  species, 
and  yet  nearly  all  of  them  would  be  doomed  to  extinction  were  it  not 
for  their  legion  of  little  insect  friends.  And  the  marvels  of  ingenuity  by 


152  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

which  Nature  insures  their  aid  are  almost  past  belief.  The  hosts  of 
humming-birds,  too,  that  throng  the  Paradise  of  the  Amazons!  How 
significant  the  coincidence !  for  here  the  orchids  dwell  in  all  their  splen 
dor  and  profusion.  How  many  of  those  rare  blossoms  look  to  these 
winged  sun-gems  for  the  condition  of  their  existence ! 

It  is  enough  to  make  one  dumb  with  awe  and  wonderment  even  to 
contemplate  the  inexhaustible  variety  in  their  freaks  of  outward  form 
alone,  and  it  will  be  a  day  long  to  be  remembered  by  any  one  who  is 
fortunate  enough  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  within  the  fairy  tropics  of  a 
conservatory  devoted  to  these  blossoms  of  the  air.  Here  are  colors  and 
tones  that  are  not  of  this  world,  but  rather  radiations  borrowed  from  the 
celestial  rainbow  and  the  sunset  and  the  pure  blue  sky.  Here  are  scin 
tillating  textures  woven  with  yellow  light,  and  twilight  purples  of  a  hun 
dred  hues. 

And  what  astounding  mimicry !  Here  a  grotesque  form  that  might 
almost  be  mistaken  for  a  bee !  Here  a  long  spray  hung  full  with  great 
green  spiders  clinging  on  the  stem ;  a  little  dove  spreads  its  wings,  as 
though  alighting  in  a  blossom  near ;  and  again  a  comical  frog  grins 
at  you  from  the  shadows  of  a  den  of  petals.  Observe — quick  !  ere  it 
flies  —  this  brilliant  butterfly  hovering  above  the  flowers!  It  is  an 
orchid. 

This  great  tribe  of  plants,  among  the  most  beautiful  on  the  face 
of  the  earth,  were  only  quite  recently  revealed  to  us  in  all  their  true 
significance.  Their  endless  forms  and  colors  have  afforded  sufficient 
stimulus  to  most  botanists ;  but  any  one  who  will  go  through  an 
orchid  conservatory  in  company  with  Darwin  will  acquire  a  vastly  in 
creased  interest  in  these  flowers,  of  which  their  strange  shapes  are  but 
an  alluring  hint. 

It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  seek  the  aid  of  the  florist  in  order 
to  study  the  mystery  of  the  orchid.  We  can  go  into  our  woods  and 
fields  and  find  an  abundant  harvest  for  investigation.  There  is  the  little 
spiranthes,  or  ladies' -tresses,  to  be  seen  in  almost  any  summer  ramble. 
All  who  love  the  hem-lock  woods  will  remember  the  common  cypripe- 
dium,  or  moccason  -  flower,  also  called  lady's  -  slipper ;  and  the  fragrant 
"  grass  pink,"  or  sweet-scented  Arethusa,  with  its  lovely  purple  blossom, 
will  be  associated  with  the  memory  of  many  a  marshy  meadow. 

Were  you  to  retrace  your  steps  you  might  still  reclaim  a  delicate, 
wilting  spray  which  lies  broken  in  your  footpath,  where  it  bloomed 


AMONG     OUR    FOOTPRINTS. 


153 


unheeded   among  the    sedges.      Had  you 
known    its    charming    secret,   or    seen 
its     murmuring    nursling    kissing    its 
every  flower,  you  never  had  trodden 
upon  it.      It  is  the  little  fringed  or 
chid,   Platanthera    psycodes,    of    our 
moist  meadows.     Perhaps  the  accom 
panying  illustration  will  serve  to  re 
call  it,  if  the  imagination  lend  its  aid 
in   imparting   to    its   fringed   petals   a 
tint  of  delicate  lavender  purple. 

The  life-history  of  this   flower,  as  it 
has  been  revealed  to  me  through  recent 
observations  of  my  own,  is  of  such  absorb 
ing  interest  that  I  am  tempted  into  a  narra 
tive  of  my  investigations.     They  were  the  out 
come  of  an  intent  perusal  of  Darwin's  wonderful 
discoveries   chronicled  in  his  "  Fertilization  of  Or 
chids."     This   book   led   me   with  feverish   impulse 
into  the  conservatory  and  field,  and  has  resulted 
in  a  large    number   of  drawings,  among   which 
are  those  relating  to  the  little  orchid  in  ques 
tion.       Like    many   flowers,  this    one    is    con 
structed  on   a  principle    of  reciprocity.      The 
insects   serve    the    plant,  and   the    plant  yields 
them  food  in  return.      Let   us   examine   the  structure 
of  this   little  orchid.      It  will   be  readily   understood 
by  reference  to  the  diagrams  on  the  following  page. 
In   this    instance   the   bait  consists    of  the    usual 
sweet  secretion,  here  deposited  at  the   end  of 
a  curved  tubular  nectary,  nearly  an  inch  in 
length.      The    opening   to    this    nectary 
is  seen  directly  in  the  heart  of  the 
flower.      But  observe  how  that 
entrance   is    guarded — defended 
with  two  clubs,  if  I   may  so  speak,  the 
pollen  masses  bearing  some   such   resem 
blance.       These    are    hidden    in    tWO    pockets,  THE  ORCHID  AND  ITS  FRIEND. 


154 


HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 


one  on  each  side  of  the  opening.  The  lower  extremity  of  each  is 
provided  with  a  flat,  sticky  disk,  turned  inward.  This  is  all  very  sim 
ple.  The  trap  is  set.  Now  let  us  see  how  it 
works.  A  small  brown  hawk-moth  hovers  near; 
he  poises  like  a  humming-bird  in  front  of  the 
blossom,  uncoils  his  slender  tongue,  and  thrusts 
it  into  the  opening  of  the  nectary.  So  trans 
parent  is  this  tiny  tube  that  you  can  readily 
see,  not  only  the  tongue  within,  but  the  gradual 
absorption  of  the  nectar.  As  the  moth  thus 
sips  he  brings  his  tongue  in  contact  with  one 
or  both  of  the  sticky  disks.  They  clasp  it  firm 
ly,  and  as  the  member  is  withdrawn  they  are 
pulled  out  of  their  pockets,  and  stand  erect  upon 
the  insect's  tongue.  This  alone  is  surprising, 
but  what  follows  is  stranger  still.  In  a  very  few 
seconds  the  little  club  begins  to  sink  forward, 
gradually  lowering,  until  it  has  brought  itself 
nearly  level  with  the  tongue.  Wilted,  you  will 
imagine.  Not  so ;  it  is  still  firm  in  its  new7  po 
sition.  And  what  will  be  your  surprise,  if 
you  watch  closely  as  the  humming  rover 
sips  from  the  next  flower,  on  seeing  the 
tips  of  that  club  so  tilted  strike  directly 
against  the  stigma,  or  fertilizing  surface, 
just  above  the  opening  of  the  nectary ! 
The  flower  is  thus  fertilized,  and  will  ma 
ture  its  seeds. 

The  flowers  are  frequented  by  several 
kinds  of  insects,  but  this  little  day -flying 
sphinx  is  one  of  their  most  common  visit 
ors  ;  and  the  very  conformation  of  the  or-  c>  side  view  of  flower  (petals  rem0ved)( 
chid  would  indicate,  from  its  slender  tube 
and  the  distance  of  the  nectar  from  the 
orifice,  an  adaptation  to  the  long,  slender 
tongues  of  moths  and  butterflies.  I  have 

never  happened   to    see    a  bee   upon   this   orchid,  and   I  doubt  whether 
the  insect  could  reach  the   nectar  unless,  perhaps,  through  the  external 


a    a 

CONSTRUCTION   OF   ORCHID. 

A,  centre  of  flower  (petals  re 
moved)  ;  p,  pouches  contain 
ing  pollen  clubs,  with  the  two 
disks  guarding  the  opening  to 
nectary,  n ;  B,  pollen  clubs 
isolated,  to  show  their  posi 
tion  in  pouches,  and  their  two 
glutinous  disks,  d  d.  The 
stigma  of  flower  is  indicated 
by  the  rough  spot  above 
opening  to  nectary. 


REMOVAL    OF    POLLEN. 


showing  head  of  sphinx-moth  and  re 
moval  of  pollen  on  insect's  tongue  ;  D, 
position  immediately  assumed  by  pol 
len  club,  the  sticky  disk,  d,  clasping 
the  insect's  tongue. 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS.  155 

puncture  of  some  bumblebee,  which  insect  has  a  well-known  trick  of 
cutting  matters  short,  and  saving  itself  trouble,  by  biting  through  the 
honey -tube  from  the  outside.  Only  a  few  days  since  I  watched  a 
bumblebee  in  a  bed  of  toad-flax  thus  cheating  Nature  and  rifling  the 
blossoms ;  and  in  a  whole  bouquet  afterward  gathered  it  was  difficult  to 
find  a  single  flower,  or  even  mature  bud,  whose  nectary  had  not  been 
thus  punctured  near  its  tip. 

These  experiments  with  the  orchid  may  be  tried  by  any  one.     The 
drawings  herewith  given'  were    made  from  an 
actual  specimen   of  the  insect,  which  suffered  \ 

martyrdom   in   the    cause.      You    may  observe  \ 

the  appearance  of  its  tongue  after  searching  a  ^P^^s_ 

few  nectaries.     While   making   the   drawing  a  ^N 

common    house-fly    lit    among    the    blossoms,  -\  •-••• 

and,  although  it  appeared  to  know  the   neigh-  A  MARTYR  ^  SCIENCE. 

borhood   of  the    bait,  it   seemed   powerless   to 

reach  it.  With  a  little  forcible  encouragement  on  my  part,  however,  the 
insect  succeeded  in  getting  one  of  its  eyes  decorated  with  a  pollen  club. 

It  was  interesting,  also,  to  notice  the  sagacity  of  a  diminutive  spider 
that  seemed  to  know  the  attraction  of  those  honey-tubes,  and  had  spread 
its  web  among  the  blossoms.  Its  meshes  were  sprinkled  with  minute 
insects,  among  which  I  discovered  one  rash  atom  with  a  club-shaped 
appendage,  as  large  as  its  body,  firmly  attached  to  the  top  of  its  head. 

There  are  several  other  of  our  native  orchids  commonly  met  with 
equally  if  not  more  interesting;  and  in  each  variety  there  will  be  found 
some  new  and  wonderful  adaptation,  some  surprising  mechanism,  for  the 
removal  and  utility  of  its  pollen.  In  Arethusa  and  pogonia  it  is  a  little 
lid  that  lifts  as  the  bee  leaves  the  flower,  and  lets  fall  the  pollen  on  the 
intruder's  back.  The  cypripedium  of  our  woods  is  a  veritable  trap,  with 
but  one  exit,  in  escaping  from  which  the  insect  gets  a  dab  of  pollen  on 
its  head,  or  thorax;  and  I  might  continue  the  list  indefinitely. 

The  fertilization  of  the  greater  green  orchis,  described  by  Professor 
Gray,  presents  a  remarkable  adaptation  to  a  distinct  family  of  insects. 
In  this  species  the  nectary  is  about  two  inches  in  length,  and  only  the 
slender  tongue  of  the  sphinx-moths  could  reach  its  sweets ;  moreover,  the 
disks,  with  evident  design,  are  here  placed  far  apart,  and  as  the  moth 
seeks  the  nectar  the  rounded  projecting  eyes  are  brought  directly  in  con 
tact  with  those  clinging  surfaces,  and  the  pollen  masses  are  thus  borne 


156  HIGHWAYS    AND    BYWAYS. 

away  upon  the  insect's  eyes.  In  a  few  seconds  they  droop  as  already 
described,  and  at  such  an  angle  as  to  exactly  strike  the  stigma  of  the 
flower  next  visited. 

These  are  our  own  native  species ;  but  in  the  pages  of  Darwin  there 
are  described  many  exotic  varieties  of  most  intricate  and  amazing  mech 
anism,  by  which  Nature,  while  thus  preventing  the  self-fertilization  of  the 
flower,  equally  insures  its  cross-fertilization,  thus  affording  unanswerable 
arguments  in  favor  of  the  pet  theories  of  this  great  philosopher. 

There  are  similar  mysteries  concealed  within  the  hearts  of  many  of 
our  most  common  wild  flowers,  and  it  is  one  of  the  most  inspiring  fasci 
nations  of  Nature-study  that,  while  rewarding  her  devotees  with  a  full 
measure  of  her  confidence,  she  still  allures  them  on  with  an  inex 
haustible  reserve.  You  may  discover  some  unknown  flower,  dissect  and 
analyze  its  parts,  and  find  its  place  among  the  genera  and  species  of 
vegetation;  but  there  are  strange  testimonies  beneath  its  conformation 
that  are  still  unheeded,  even  as  in  these  curious  orchids,  known  and 
classified  long  ere  Darwin  sought  the  secret  of  their  wondrous  forms. 

We  cannot  all  be  scientists  or  explorers,  but  we  can  at  least  learn  to 
lend  an  answering  intelligent  welcome  to  those  little  faces  that  smile  at 
us  from  among  the  grass  and  withered  leaves,  that  crowd  humbly  about 
our  feet,  and  are  too  often  idly  crushed  beneath  our  heel.  The  darkest 
pathless  forest  is  relieved  of  its  gloom  to  him  who  can  nod  a  greeting 
with  every  footstep  ;  who  knows  the  pale  dicentra  that  nods  to  him  in 
return  ;  who  can  call  by  name  the  peeping  lizard  among  the  moss,  the 
pale  white  pipe  among  the  matted  leaves,  or  even  the  covering  mould 
among  the  damp  debris. 

And  to  him  who  knows  the  arcana  beneath  a  stone ;  who  has  learned 
with  reverence  how  the  clover  goes  to  sleep,  how  the  fire-weed  spins  its 
silken  floss,  or  how  the  spider  floats  its  web  from  tree  to  tree ;  who  has 
seen  the  brilliant  cassida,  the  palpitating  gem  upon  the  leaf,  change  from 
burnished  gold  to  iridescent  pearl,  or  has  watched  the  wondrous  resur 
rection  of  the  imago  bursting  from  its  living  tomb — to  such  a  one  there 
is  in  all  the  length  and  breadth  of  Nature  no  such  thing  as  exile,  no 
such  thought  as  loneliness,  and  it  were  the  voice  of  an  unknown  senti 
ment  which  should  declare  that 

"A  primrose  by  a  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 


AMONG     OUR     FOOTPRINTS. 

For  there  was  a  something  deeper,  something  sweeter,  that  unfolded  with 
those  dewy  petals,  something  from  that  heart  laid  bare  that  breathed  its 
perfumed  whisper  in  the  gloaming,  and  found  its  answer  in  that  throb 
of  sympathy,  a  love  which  might  still  further  feel,  and,  feeling,  whisper 
in  return  : 

"  The  bubbling  brook  cloth  leap  when  I  come  by, 

Because  my  feet  find  measure  with  its  call ; 
The  birds  know  when  the  friend  they  love  is  nigh, 

For  I  am  known  to  them,  both  great  and  small ; 
The  flower  that  on  the  lonely  hill-side  grows 

Expects  me  there  when  spring  its  bloom  has  given; 
And  many  a  tree  and  bush  my  wanderings  knows, 

And  e'en  the  clouds  and  silent  stars  of  heaven." 


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